Josie had screamed. “Run, Ivy. Run!”

I’d looked back over my daddy’s shoulder, but he’d covered my eyes.

“Don’t look, baby. You’re safe now. She can never hurt you again. Daddy’s here.”

Josie had screamed again and there was a loud bang from behind us, and then it had gone quiet but for the noise of the van that Daddy had bundled us into.

“It’s time to get out.” Daddy startles me in the doorway. He walks toward me with a soft smile on his face. “Has Daddy’s girl been good in here all alone?”

I shiver in the water, and glance down at my wrinkled skin. Sometimes I wish my face had been mashed up the way Josie’s was.

Maybe then he wouldn’t love me so much.

Maybe then he wouldn’t take the pictures.

Maybe then the other man would have shot me instead of Josie.

As soon as I hear the bike roar down the drive, I’m out of bed and moving towards the kitchen. This is the first time Tank has left me alone since he brought me here. I half expected him to wake me up, but whatever he had to do must have been urgent because I heard his phone ring and then he was up and tearing around the house. He opened my door and just stood there for a moment, watching me “sleep”. He couldn’t see that I was awake because I was facing the wall, and probably giving him a pretty good view of my naked arse. He’d groaned. The sound had resonated through the room like music, sexual, primal, and it had tightened things low in my belly that in my agony I’d almost forgotten were there. Then he’d sighed and quietly closed the door before walking away. I’d heard him set the alarm before he left.

I wander into the kitchen and see the note he’d scrawled in his big, hard to decipher chicken scratch:

Ivy,

Club biz. You fuckin’ stay put. You hear?

Alarm’s in place and dog is in the yard.

He doesn’t fuck around, and he doesn’t know you. Try it and you’ll wind up a chew toy.

T.

Such an arsehole.

There has to be a way out of this house. I’d just have to find it.

Grabbing one of his protein bars from the cupboard—which tastes like chocolate-covered cardboard—I try to ignore the aches and pains in my body, the pounding in my head, and I walk back to my room. I slip into jeans, a new singlet, a T-shirt and my leather jacket and boots, but even that effort exhausts me, so I sit on the bed and think about what the hell I’m going to do. If I leave now, the alarm will sound, Tank will be alerted by his security provider and he’ll come back and tie me up, and I’ll never get out of here. I flop back on the bed and stare at the ceiling, but even that hurts in my weakened state.

I can’t do much of anything. The only time I feel even remotely energetic is when I think about scoring a fix. And where would I even find someone to sell me drugs out here? I figure it’s at least an hour’s walk to the closest town, if not more, but if I’m going to go I’ll have to wait until Tank’s at least a half hour away. That’ll give me time to run. Hopefully in the opposite direction.

Of course, it might help if I actually knew he was more than thirty minutes away, or where the nearest town is. He could be just telling me that he’s gone out on club business when he’s really lying in wait to see if I make a move.

Fuck.

No. Tank wouldn’t do that. He doesn’t play games. He doesn’t have time for that. If he says he’s going on club business then that is what he means, because he’s the type of man that does what he says he will. He’s perhaps the most honest man I’ve ever met. For a criminal.

Tank might come off as all big and scary, and he’s certainly not a pussycat underneath—he’s not like that at all. But he is a good man. Right down to the very core of him, he’s good. Pure. Despite what he does for a living. Not like Kick. That man is one hundred per cent pure bastard. He cares only for himself … and that’s what I love about him. I’m so fucked in the head. I like that he treats me like shit, because that’s what I’m used to. I am shit. And I’m certainly not worthy of someone like Tank.

I have to get out of here. I don’t have a choice. I can’t stay and pretend like this is my home, that I’m welcome here. I can’t cook and clean for him, and be a good little house mouse. That’s not who I am. I’ve never had a problem with Tank in bed; he gives me what I need, and I give him a soft body to lie with and a tight pussy to stick his dick in. But he doesn’t need this headache. No one needs this fucking headache.

I don’t need his help. I can use again, and I’ll be better this time about knowing when to stop. I know my limits. I’ve always known them. But the coke keeps me feeling good, it helps me forget, and when it starts wearing off, the memories come back in an abundance.

The rapes, the fear, the hiding under my covers each night and just praying he wouldn’t come in to find me. When the drugs wear off, I remember what he did. That’s what makes me snort another line, or shoot another needle into my veins, or seek out another warm, hard body to own me. Because when those memories come creeping back in, I’m no longer whole. I’m no longer me. I’m just another victim of sexual abuse. I’m just another little girl who was broken, who’s still broken.

Who’ll always be broken.

I sigh and sink farther into the soft warm bed, feeling guilty because Tank might be the only person in the entire world who actually cares about my wellbeing, which is exactly why I have to get out of here. I’m not an idiot. I see the way he looks at me. I see the way he looks at other women, too. It’s not even remotely the same. I guess I’ve always known how he felt about me. And it’s not that I’m waiting for him to admit it. Why would I? Because I’m in love with Kick. A selfish bastard who collects broken women like trophies. Who pets them, reassures them until they feel safe, and then he uses them up until there’s nothing left. He sticks the knife in their back while he slides out from between their legs, and he laughs as they bleed out in front of him.

Tank may seem detached and cold, even heartless at times, but he’s not soulless. Not like Kick. I don’t need Tank caught up in my shit. Which is why I have to leave the clubhouse behind. Because as long as I’m there, he’s always going to feel like he owes me something. And I don’t want to owe him anything in return.

I’ll steal a couple hundred bucks from him to get me on my way, and then I’ll leave this city behind. Hop a bus to Melbourne. The only thing I have in my life is coke, and I can get that anywhere. Though maybe it’s time to move to heroine? It’s a cheaper habit to have. One thing I know for sure is I cannot give it up. If I give it up, then my father wins. And I’d rather be dead than give that son-of-a-bitch another chance to own me.

I wake drenched in sweat. I’m burning up, and I shed my shoes, jacket and T-shirt like a snake on a bad malt. My limbs ache with each movement, I itch all over, and I can’t get free quick enough. Stupid fucking detox. I wasn’t even aware that I’d been drifting off and now it’s afternoon, probably three or four o’clock, if the sun beating in through my window is anything to go by. And there’s someone knocking on the front door. I listen for a minute, wondering who might come to visit Tank all the way out here, and disliking the images of mob bosses and degenerate criminals that my head conjures up. And then I bust out in a grin when I recognise the voice.

Killer.

Killer means drugs. He never goes anywhere without a line.

I jump up from the bed and race to the front door. He sees me through the glass panels and smiles. His blond hair flops in front of bright green eyes that are always coloured with mischief.