Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 41327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 207(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 138(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 207(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 138(@300wpm)
My stomach is knotting as I open the browser, type in my Instagram login. My fingers shake.
I haven't posted since the funeral. Haven't touched socials since the last fight I had with my ex when he smashed my phone, and I was too scared to go back to my little rented room above the donut shop on the outskirts of Flint for longer than the few minutes it took to grab a few of my favorite rocks, a change of clothes and the Hello, Kitty make-up bag that contained three hundred dollars and my favorite mascara and lip gloss.
I do miss the free donuts they’d give me every afternoon when they closed up, and waking to the smell of frying sweet dough, but the second I log in to my IG, those sweet memories fade.
DMs. Notifications. Screenshots.
Him.
My ex, the reason I came here in the first place. The reason I ran.
I stare at the messages on the screen, sourness turning in my stomach.
David—the young medical intern with dimples, the one who brought hot chocolate during Dad’s overnight stays. He seemed sweet at first. Familiar. He won me over enough to share a few meals in the hospital cafeteria.
Then came the dinner invitation, a week after Dad passed. I was searching for something, and he felt like a connection to what I'd just lost.
Calm and comforting in scrubs one moment, eyes cold and distant the next. The hospital staff adored him, but it didn’t take long for the possessiveness to show.
The putt-putt dates and movie nights squeezed into his busy schedule gave way to: ‘Where are you?’ and ‘My patience isn’t infinite.’
It wasn’t just the Jekyll-and-Hyde routine or the sharp, cutting words—"You’re lucky I show any interest. I might be just an intern now, but in a few years, I’ll be head of oncology. And what will you have? Nothing and no one."
Then worse. "I’ll find you wherever you go."
And the bruises. His “gentle” touch turning hard in an instant. Finger-shaped marks on my wrists I learned to hide under bracelets and long sleeves.
His name is everywhere on my screen. Messages. Voice memos I'd saved—evidence of his rage, his threats, the side of himself he never showed at the hospital. Evidence that could end his medical career if anyone else heard them. The real reason he's desperate to find me. I changed my passwords before I left, locked him out of the accounts he once controlled. His perfect future depends on making sure I never share what I know.
A man who could charm an entire hospital but couldn't handle being told "not yet” or God forbid, “no”. A man whose rage I still feel crawling on my skin even here, miles away, on a mountain where he can't reach me.
I snap the laptop shut and return it to the coffee table, drawing my knees to my chest as I hear the cabin door open. Mountain air rushes in, carrying Jack’s scent—cedar, sweat, man.
He enters, shirt abandoned somewhere, skin glistening, chest heaving. His gaze lands on me first thing, sharper than it should be for someone who's been mindlessly chopping wood.
"You okay?" His voice is rough gravel over velvet. "You don’t look right."
I shake my head, forcing a smile that feels brittle. "Just tired."
He studies me, thick brows drawing tight, not believing me but not pushing. Then he nods, that silent acknowledgment feeling more intimate than words. I watch as he moves to the kitchen sink, his shoulders nearly spanning the width of the doorframe. The cabinet handles hit him at mid-thigh—they'd reach my hip bone. When he turns on the faucet, his hand engulfs the entire fixture.
There's something almost comical about watching him navigate a space clearly built for normal-sized humans—except there's nothing funny about the way my body responds to all that excess. In New York, he'd count as a fire hazard in any apartment under 1,000 square feet.
He turns, leaning against the counter, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's determined to solve. One of his precious Rubik's cubes, but infinitely more complex.
"Hungry?" he asks, drying his hands methodically. His eyes narrow when I don’t respond. "What and when did you eat last?"
I blink, a little surprised by the direct question. "I... yesterday, I think? I had a granola bar on the bus."
"A granola bar." His tone makes it clear that doesn't count as food. "And before that?"
"Why does it matter?" I extend my legs, then draw them up again under the flannel, clasping my hands around my knees, suddenly feeling exposed in a way that has nothing to do with clothing.
He crosses the space between us in three long strides, drops to one knee beside the couch. Even kneeling, he's nearly at eye level.
"Because, that’s why. You’re on my mountain, remember? My mountain, my way." His voice drops lower, something primal threading through it. "And that means I decide when you eat, how much you eat, and what you eat."