𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑 is your average do-good lawyer on the rise to fame as a representative of young victims. Except her motivations aren't all that innocent. Rayne's only goal is to run from her past, to leave confrontation for the courtroom, no...
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RAYNE DIDN'T HEAR ANYTHING—ONLY FELT the unknown male presence behind her. Her muscles tensed as each of his five fingers gave her shoulder a squeeze—and while part of her wanted to rationalize, to take a deep breath, the only thoughts that passed through her mind were those of fear.
A knowing squeeze—she'd be punished tonight.
Her eyes slammed shut, unable to shake her head and rid of these thoughts as the unfamiliar masculine scent clogged her nostrils and threatened her guts to spill.
Wrong choice.
Memories of faux family outings with her father and brother flashed across the back of her eyelids. A toe out of line, a hand on her shoulder—a tightening hold just inches from her neck. It washed over her like a river, flooding her senses, ripping her from the present, and regurgitating her on the floor of her childhood bedroom.
Don't cry.
He doesn't like it when you cry.
All of the work she put in—therapy, medication, self-defense classes—disappeared at the snap of a finger, at the touch of a man she didn't know. Every drop of blood froze. Every bruise burned her supposedly healed skin. Her innocence was stripped before she even had a chance to acknowledge it.
Somehow, Rayne managed to open her eyes and face the person who had touched her. And for half a second, the truth of him rang true. Bright blue eyes, hair as black as coal—a smile that curved the edges of his lips in a way that should've pooled warmth down her spine.
But terror struck home.
In a blink, those eyes were hazel, that hair, black, but greying at the roots.
"Is everything okay?"
Rayne's lips parted as she released a shuddering breath, desperate to give him a response. But the words were trapped in her throat like her mind was trapped in her body. Survival mode kicked in the more those hazel eyes bore at her, the closer he stepped.
Her heartbeat pounded in the tips of her fingers as they fell like lead at her sides.
She swallowed, hard, attempting to wet her dry throat, but all the motion did was sever the connection of their eyes. Flightless and alone, her vision wandered, hoping to find something that she could use to defend herself.
The man moved again, and the motion startled her enough to watch his hip line—to try and decipher the next move he would make—and that's when she spotted it. Just shyly tucked under the side of his belt was a gun—his gun.
It took a solid second to decide what to do.
Lunging forward, Rayne wrapped her fingers around the cold metal at the same time she used her other hand to shove at his chest. With a cry of surprise, the man tumbled over his own shoes and hit the ground with a thud.
