After My Boyfriend Humiliated Me, His Uncle Married Me

I walked for twenty minutes before I admitted I had no idea where I was going.

The rain was cold. It soaked through the cast and made my arm throb. My dress clung to my skin. My shoes — the heels I'd worn to the party — were ruined.

I passed closed storefronts. Dark windows. Empty bus stops.

No cabs. No people. Just rain and shadows and the distant sound of traffic I couldn't reach.

My legs were shaking. Not from cold. From the crash. From everything.

I needed to sit down. I needed to call someone. I needed my phone.

But my phone was in a hospital room I couldn't go back to. And everyone I could call was asleep. Or didn't care. Or was Cason.

I kept walking.

The International District was quiet at this hour. A few neon signs still flickered. A late-night grocery. A karaoke bar with the lights off. And then — a diner.

24-hour breakfast. The sign buzzed in the window.

I pushed the door open. A bell chimed.

The place was empty. Booths along the wall. Counter with stools. Smell of old coffee and grease.

A man looked up from behind the register. Heavy. Fifties. Stained apron.

"We're closing," he said.

I looked at the sign. "It says twenty-four hours."

He looked me over. Wet dress. Cast. No purse. No coat.

His eyes lingered too long.

"What do you need?" he asked.

I stepped inside. Water dripped from my hair onto the floor.

"Just somewhere to sit," I said. "And a phone charger. Please."

He didn't move.

I heard the door close behind me. The lock clicked.

I turned.

The man was walking toward me now. Slow. Deliberate.

"You look like you've had a rough night," he said.

I backed up. My hip hit a table.

"I just need to charge my phone," I said again.

He smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.

"Phone's in the back," he said. "Come on. I'll show you."

He reached for my wrist — my good wrist.

I yanked it back.

"Don't touch me."

"Hey, relax." His voice was soft now. Coaxing. "I'm just trying to help."

He stepped closer. I could smell him. Sweat and old smoke.

I backed into the counter. Nowhere left to go.

"I'll scream," I said.

He laughed. "Go ahead. No one's around."

His hand shot out. Grabbed my arm. The broken one.

I gasped. Pain exploded up my shoulder.

He pulled me toward him.

I swung. My right fist connected with his jaw. Not hard enough. He didn't even flinch.

His other hand went to my throat.

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't—

The door exploded inward.

Not opened. Exploded. The frame splintered. The hinges tore free. The entire door flew into the diner and hit the floor with a crash that shook the windows.

The man let go. Stumbled back.

I collapsed against the counter, gasping.

A man stepped through the doorway.

Tall. Dark suit. No umbrella. Rain dripped from his hair and shoulders.

He looked at me. Then at the diner owner.

He didn't say a word.

He just moved.

One step. Two. Then his foot drove into the man's chest.

The owner flew backward. Hit a stack of chairs. Crashed to the floor in a tangle of metal and wood.

He didn't get up.

The stranger turned to me.

I pressed back against the counter. My legs wouldn't hold me.

He pulled off his overcoat. It was heavy. Expensive. I could tell even in the dim light.

He draped it over my shoulders.

The fabric was warm. Soft. It smelled like cedar and rain.

I looked up.

His face was sharp. Controlled. His eyes were dark and unreadable.

But his hands, when he lifted me, were careful.

"Can you walk?" he asked.

His voice was low. Quiet. It didn't match the violence I'd just seen.

I shook my head.

"All right," he said.

He lifted me. One arm under my knees. One behind my back. The cast pressed against his chest.

I should have protested. Should have said something.

I didn't.

He carried me through the broken doorway into the rain.

A black car was parked at the curb. Engine running. Driver in front.

The stranger opened the back door and set me inside. Gently. Like I was made of glass.

He slid in beside me. Pulled the door shut.

The driver didn't ask questions. Just pulled into the street.

I sat there. Shaking. The overcoat wrapped around me like a shield.

The stranger didn't speak. Didn't look at me. Just stared out the window at the passing city.

Finally, I found my voice.

"Who are you?"

He turned. His eyes met mine.

"Royce Stone," he said.

The name hit me like cold water.

Stone. Cason's last name. Cason's family.

I pulled back. "You're—"

"His uncle," Royce said. "Yes."

I stared at him. At the man who'd just kicked a door off its hinges. Who'd lifted me like I weighed nothing. Who was sitting beside me now in a car I didn't recognize, taking me somewhere I didn't know.

"Why were you there?" I whispered.

His jaw tightened. Just slightly.

"I was looking for you," he said.

I didn't understand. Couldn't process.

"Your grandmother's medication," he continued. His voice was calm. Steady. "It will be restored by morning. You have my word."

I stopped breathing.

"How did you—"

"I know what my nephew did," Royce said. "And I know what you've lost."

He looked at me. Really looked at me.

"You won't lose anything else," he said. "Not while I'm here."

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

The car turned onto a quieter street. Tall buildings. Lit windows.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Somewhere safe," Royce said.

I looked down at the overcoat. At my ruined dress underneath. At the cast on my arm.

At the jade beads that weren't there anymore.

"I don't understand," I whispered.

Royce didn't answer right away. He just looked out the window again.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before.

"You will," he said.