Jordan was already waiting when Elena reached the usual booth. No coffee this time. Just Jordan, arms folded on the table, expression set in the particular way that meant she had decided something overnight.

Elena sat. The new bruise on her inner thigh—darker now, two days old—pressed against the seam of her jeans and sent a low pulse of sensation up through her hip. Higher, under the sweater she had chosen for maximum coverage, the older marks across her ribs and breasts felt tight whenever she breathed too deeply. Marcus had added nothing new that morning. He had simply bent her over the bathroom counter while Victoria was still asleep,...