Chapter 2

MIRANDA

My heels clickclack on the stairs as I head up to the third floor of the parking garage.

Hairs tingle on the back of my neck, the same way they always do when I walk anywhere at night in the city.

It’s not safe to be a woman alone.

The thought both thrills and terrifies me. Because I’m fucked up. I’m a seriously fucked up woman.

I bite my lip at the thought of the man in the bar.

Dylan Lennox.

His chiseled face and broad shoulders. Those eyes that captivated even as they dismissed me.

The man who followed me out of the hotel into the garage.

I don’t hear his footsteps on the stairs behind me, though. Will he take the elevator? Or was he not following me after all?

He was leaving, too. He’s probably just heading to his own car.

But he’s Dylan Lennox. Surely he used valet parking.

I bite my lip as I reach the top of the staircase. I only offer one glance over at the elevator before pushing through the door to the open air of the top floor of the garage.

I parked at the very end of the row, at the corner of the rooftop. As I go, I force myself not to look back like I usually would. It’s dark and I’m a woman alone. I’m supposed to be afraid.

And my breaths do come quicker with every step I take. I hurry, almost at a jog or as near to as I can in these heels.

My heartbeat only calms once I reach my car. A red Corvette, naturally. I’m so careful about the packaged product I want to project to the world as I make myself up each morning. The Corvette is all part of it.

Confident. Sexy. Desirable.

In control.

Everything I wish I actually was.

I reach in my tiny clutch purse and pull out my key, ready to push the button to open the door—

When I’m pushed from behind, my face crushed into the glass of the driver’s side window.

“Spread your legs, bitch.”

It’s not Dylan.

The breath is heavy with the stench of cigarettes and the arm that cinches around my neck is merciless.

I let out a small cry before the arm tightens around my neck.

A foot kicks my legs apart. My ankle turns at the rough movement and I cry out again but it doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters to the man at my back as he rips my dress up to my waist. I’m not wearing underwear because the dress was so tight that even the strings of a thong would have shown.

I cough and choke as tears rush my eyes.

Rough hands on my body. Hands squeezing my breasts as I cry out uselessly.

You’ll take what I give you, you worthless whore. The memory and the present mingle interchangeably. And you’ll love it so much you come the more I hurt you. You’ll beg me to hurt you even more.

“Oh yeah, you’re a hot little bitch, aren’t you?” The man behind me breathes into my face, slobbering and then biting painfully at my ear. “You hot for me, whore?”

I shudder at the words as it all washes over me. Knowing the pain is coming. The humiliation. The helplessness.

Worthless whore. You want it over? Then beg for it. Beg for it, whore!

It starts to rise, just like it always did and I hate myself. I hate him for making me this way. I hate him and I—

“Get the fuck away from her!”

My eyes pop open wide as I wrench my head to the right.

Just in time to see Dylan Lennox barreling towards us.

Oh shit.