Page 64 of Where Broken Wings Fly

Sneaking up on us, two firm hands land on my hips, tugging me back against a wide-set chest. The possessiveness of the move steals my breath, even though I can smell Zach’s familiar tropical scent from behind me.

Fear races down my spine faster than my mind can catch up with. Zach looks startled as I extricate myself from his embrace, needing space between us. My internalised defences can’t tell the difference between him and my memories right now.

“Babe? You good?”

“I’ll be outside,” I croak.

Fleeing the shop before they can ask questions, I escape into the alleyway down the side of the building and collapse against the brick wall. Shouting echoes in my head, growing louder by the second.

You will do as you’re told, Mrs Sanchez.

You and that little brat live under my roof.

Break the rules, and there will be punishment.

I still remember the day Mr Sanchez found out I was pregnant. He was always careful to use protection, treating me as more of an impersonal transaction than a human being, even as he defiled and broke the most private parts of me.

After a few too many drinks and an unsuccessful business meeting, he had come home full of rage. I was still weak in those days before I had Arianna and found the strength to fight back for her sake. He didn’t even have to restrain me.

I let him shove me into the dining room table as he ripped my dress down the back, grabbing me hard between the legs. I could hardly breathe with his weight pinning me to the table, trapping me in his toxic orbit as he forced himself inside of me.

Let me hear that beautiful screaming, wife.

Beg for mercy.

I can’t hear you.

I laid broken on the dining room floor after he stalked off, unable to even attempt to move. His men outside heard everything that happened. I heard them laughing and trading jokes after as I sobbed and begged for death.

One month later, the pregnancy test I convinced one of the housekeepers to purchase for me came back as positive and my entire life changed in an instant. The subsequent beating still makes my bones ache; the memories are so raw.

Distantly, I can hear someone calling my name. Hands slide under my legs as the press of hard muscles wraps around me. Panting between clenched teeth, I force my eyes open, terrified that I’ll find one of Mr Sanchez’s bodyguards here to take me away.

Killian is crouched in front of me, his choreographed numbness nowhere in sight. In fact, he looks horrified by the sharp, agonised rasps of my lungs attempting to suck in air.

“That’s it, baby,” Killian coaxes. “Breathe.”

Underneath me, Zach holds me tight in his lap. “Take some deep breaths.”

I lurch to the side, overcome by a sudden rush of nausea. Throwing up the entire contents of my stomach, I narrowly miss Killian’s mud-caked boots. When I’m done heaving, my throat is shredded raw.

I can’t hold my tears back any longer. I don’t have the strength. It’s all too much. We’re supposed to be free. Why can’t I get him out of my head? It’s like my monstrous husband has followed us across the continent by hiding in the depths of my mind.

It takes an age for the grip of anxiety to finally release me. My breathing slowly evens out, and I’m left utterly spent. My mouth still burns with the acidic taste of vomit, while a light sheen of sweat covers my face and neck.

“I’m so sorry,” Zach says helplessly.

“Please… don’t touch me like that again.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Struggling to my feet, I leave his lap and brush myself off. I can’t look at him, even though it wasn’t his fault. Every instinct inside of me is screaming that I should run, far and fast, away from these men and their lack of boundaries.

“Let us take you home.” Killian watches me closely. “We can come back another time to do the rest of the shopping, when you’re feeling up to it.”

My mouth is fuzzy and disgusting, but I shake my head. I’m not that person anymore, unable to protect herself or her baby girl. I’m a woman now. A survivor. I’m no longer Mr Sanchez’s broken ballerina, forever twirling in her broken music box.

“No. I want to do what we came here for.”

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