Page 12 of A Beta Protects

His fiancé, Sierra, a petite woman with a blunt dark brown bob and piercing gray eyes had seemed nice.

All the other names had blurred together.

Alys, Nick, Jones, Bethany, Chloe, and Rose. All were in their mid to late twenties. All looked put together and casual in jeans and sweats.

And all could not have helped notice my awkwardness, or the way my T-shirt hadn’t fully dried from washing it in the bathroom sink last night. But no one had laughed or looked at me strangely when I’d nearly had a panic attack after dropping my fork.

If I’d dropped that fork and spilled food everywhere in Bryce’s presence, he’d have punished me. Nothing that would leave bruises. He’d have me clean everything, and once he’d confirmed I’d done an acceptable job, he’d throw everything I’d made in the trash and make me start over.

“Without the mess this time, Kira,” he’d say, cracking open a bottle a beer and settling on the couch to await his dinner. “Because no husband likes a useless wife.”

It wouldn’t have mattered if it was 6, and I’d had a roast in the crock-pot for the last 5 hours. I would go to the store to pick up another roast and all the ingredients I’d used up, and I’d start over.

From scratch.

When he got to bed later than usual, it was my fault for messing up the dinner. And if he woke late for work the next morning…

Well, some wives were sweet to their husbands and others were fuck ups. There was no mistaking which one I was from the tone of Bryce’s voice.

“So now, what, Kira?” I mutter as I cook in my car. The sun rises and minute by minute, it becomes more unbearable to sit in it. I could turn the engine on, crank up the AC, but that would eat up gas and if I kill my battery? No. I could even open a window, but sitting in my car with the windows rolled up used to be how I relaxed.

Some people watch a movie or meditate to relax. I’d scream in my car or I’d have gone crazy years ago.

Bryce would be at work, and I’d go into the garage, get in my car, start up the radio, and after checking I’d rolled the window all the way up, I’d scream so loud I couldn’t hear myself think anymore. Just to channel out all the pain, anger, hurt, and the frustration in a way that wouldn’t get back to Bryce.

Because Bryce was the perfect former star quarterback from the local high school with the helpful, cheerful wife. No one would have believed anything was wrong with him.

No one would have believed me when they saw Bryce as some kind of hero.

“You’re a lucky thing.” Suzan Clarke pats the back of my hand when she corners me after church.

“Aaron must have been so disappointed in you for running off to get married like that while he was on deployment.” She tuts. “He would have wanted to walk you down the aisle. As is right, Kira.”

“Oh, he?—”

“But he must be relieved you’re not at home all alone now with him being deployed again. Even if you didn’t do it the right way.”

“I was?—”

“But I guess young love can’t wait,” she interrupts. Again.

She wasn’t the only one who thought that way.

In a small town, everyone assumes they know everything about your life, your feelings, and what you need. Everyone thought Bryce was doing me, the poor Palmerston orphan, a favor when he married her.

When Aaron came home from deployment, he was relieved I wasn’t alone anymore. He thought I was happy, and I didn’t want to tell him it had been a mistake. That Bryce wasn’t the man I thought he was.

Then Aaron had died, and I truly was all alone in the world. No parents, no big brother, and no other living relatives. Just a small town of people who’d known me since I was a kid, and assumed my life with Bryce was perfect because Bryce made them think it was.

After I screamed out my rage in the garage, I’d return to the house to clean, cook, and being Bryce’s sweet wife until the next time I needed to scream in my car again.

I should start up the engine and leave.

I’ve already stuck my key in the ignition twice, but stopped short of starting it. Wylder is tiny. I could be out of this town in under twenty minutes.

And I would, really I would, if I could understand why the hell the sheriff lied to protect me.

My shirt is clinging to my back, all cold and unpleasant. If I stayed, someone is going to notice that my T-shirt is still damp from not having nearly enough time to dry from my handwash in the bathroom sink. How would I explain that?

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