El wakes before the sun, the room still dim and gray. For a moment she lies perfectly still, staring at the ceiling, letting the silence settle over her like a blanket. Her body feels heavy, her mind foggy, but she forces herself upright and swings her legs over the edge of the bed.
The floor is cold beneath her feet.
She sits there, hands clasped in her lap, breathing slowly until her heartbeat steadies. The rules Marcus whispered in the dark still cling to her skin, but she pushes them down, burying them beneath the same practiced thoughts she’s used for years.
It will be okay.
She repeats it silently, over and over, like a mantra.
Tyler isn’t his father.
Tyler doesn’t have Marcus’s temper.
Tyler doesn’t have Marcus’s hunger for control.
Maybe—maybe once Marcus steps aside and Ty
