Page 1 of Mortify

PROLOGUE

Everly

The fluorescent lights of the grocery store feel too bright, making my head pound as I push the cart down another aisle.

Dylan walks beside me, his hand possessively on the small of my back, steering me like I'm a child who can't shop alone.

His fingers press through my jacket, finding the tender spots where last week's bruises haven't quite faded.

"Organic turkey? Really?" He picks up the price tag, shaking his head with that disgusted expression I've come to dread. "Forty dollars for a fucking bird? Your biker family must be loaded."

"The club's paying for it," I say quietly, adding the turkey to our cart anyway. "We need three of them. There's over fifty people?—"

His fingers dig into my back, a warning that makes me stop mid-sentence. "Wasting money on organic bullshit when regular would do fine. Typical. These criminals throw around cash while honest people struggle."

I don't respond.

I've learned silence is safer than defending my choices.

We continue through the store, Dylan criticizing every item—the sweet potatoes are too expensive, the brand of butter is wrong, why do we need so much flour?

Each complaint chips away at me, making me smaller, making me doubt every decision.

A woman with her toddler passes us in the baking aisle, and the little girl waves at me.

I smile back, and for just a moment, I remember who I used to be—someone who smiled without calculating the consequences first.

"Stop flirting," Dylan hisses in my ear. "You look desperate."

"She's a baby?—"

"Don't argue with me in public." His voice is pleasant, conversational, but his fingers find that spot on my ribs where he grabbed me three days ago. The bruise throbs under the pressure. "Add the fucking flour so we can go."

I reach for the store brand, but he stops me. "Not that one. Get the expensive one. If they're wasting money anyway, might as well get the best."

The contradiction makes my head spin—criticize me for expensive turkey, demand expensive flour.

It's a game I can never win, rules that change based on his mood.

"Could've been done an hour ago if you'd just bought normal shit," he mutters as we wait in the checkout line.

An elderly woman ahead of us glances back at his tone.

Her eyes meet mine, and I see the question there—are you okay?

I force a smile, adjusting my expression to 'everything's fine.'

We're just a normal couple doing holiday shopping.

Nothing to see here.

The cashier, a young guy maybe nineteen, smiles at me as he starts scanning. "Big Thanksgiving planned?"

"Family gathering," I respond, returning his smile automatically.

Dylan's hand tightens on my waist. "Yeah, her family can't cook for shit, so she has to do everything."

He laughs like it's a joke, but I hear the edge underneath.

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