# Chapter 10: The Past
The desert night pressed against the windows of Jace's loft, thick and quiet, as if the world had paused to listen. Sadie sat cross-legged on the rug, spine straight, hands curled around a mug that had long gone cold. The amber light from the single lamp painted the room in shades of gold and shadow, softening the scarred coffee table, the battered couch, the man across from her who waited without moving. He hadn't spoken since she'd said, I'm ready to tell you. That had been five minutes ago. Maybe ten. Time had become elastic, stretching like taffy between her words and the ones she still needed to find.
She'd asked for this—to sit on the floor, to speak at her own pace, to have the width of the room between them so his size wouldn't feel like a wall she couldn't breathe through. He'd given her all of it without argument, even moving the lamp so it angled away from her face. Now he waited, palms open on his thighs, wearing nothing but sweatpants and patience, the cut slung over a chair like shed armor. His chest rose and fell steady, the same calm he'd worn in firefights and hospital corridors, but she could see the effort in the set of his shoulders, the way his right thumb kept circling the scar on his left wrist—a habit she'd noticed months back but never asked about.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. The mug trembled in her grip. She set it down before she embarrassed them both by spilling.
"It started with coffee," she said finally, voice rusted. "Isn't that stupid? Not a punch. Not a kick. Coffee."
The words hung like smoke. Jace didn't move, didn't fill the silence the way most men would, questions or pity or the need to fix. He simply breathed, steady as a metronome, letting her find the rhythm.
"I was twenty-three—tending bar at this upscale place in Phoenix, saving for nursing school. He came in wearing a suit that cost more than I made in a month, ordered espresso like he was doing the bar a favor. I made some crack about him needing caffeine to fix his personality. He laughed." Her mouth twisted. "Victor Valdez laughed at my joke, left a hundred-dollar tip on a seven-dollar drink, and asked me my schedule for the week like I'd already agreed to give it to him."
She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping arms around them, making herself small without meaning to. The lamp flickered. Somewhere outside, a coyote yipped, then another answered, lonely to lonely.
"I was flattered. Stupid, but flattered. He showed up every Tuesday after that—always espresso, always the suit, always the grin that said he knew exactly how handsome he was. After three weeks he asked me to dinner. I said yes because... because he looked safe. Polished. Like the kind of man who'd never need to hit a woman because the world already bent to him."
Jace's jaw tightened, but he stayed silent, letting her talk.
"The first two months were perfect. Expensive restaurants, weekend trips to Flagstaff, jewelry that came in boxes I couldn't pronounce. He called me mi reina, bought me scrubs in silk because he knew I wanted to be a nurse, paid off my community-college loans with a check that had so many zeros I cried. He didn't want sex right away—said good things were worth waiting for. I thought that meant respect."
She rubbed at a stain on the rug, worn threadbare in spots from countless boots. "The first crack came at dinner with his business associates. One of them made a joke—something about my ass in the scrubs. I laughed it off because that’s what you do when you're the only woman at the table, but Victor went quiet. The kind of quiet that's like a room with the air sucked out. When we got back to his penthouse, he poured a whiskey and asked—real polite—why I'd embarrassed him by encouraging their attention."
Her voice dropped, mimicking his cultured accent: 'A queen does not laugh at common jokes, Sarah. She sets the standard for how men will speak to her. You've made me look weak.' He didn't shout. Just... explained. Patient. Like I was a child who'd spilled milk. Then he kissed my forehead and went to bed. I stood in the kitchen feeling like I'd swallowed barbed wire."
She looked up at Jace, needing to see if the disgust had started in his eyes. It hadn't. Just those pale irises reflecting lamplight and something deeper—recognition maybe, or its shadow.
"Next week, he took me shopping. Replaced every piece of clothing I owned with things he'd chosen—neutrals, no patterns, nothing that drew attention to my body without his approval. Said it was a queen's duty to reflect her king's taste. I joked that I looked like a beige couch. He didn't laugh."
The coyotes had gone quiet. Even the wind held its breath.
"The first time he hit me was six months in. We'd gone to a charity gala—I wore red, some designer dress he'd approved, but I guess the color looked different under the venue's lights. A man at our table complimented me. Called me stunning. Victor smiled, signed the check, held my hand all the way home. Once the door locked, he backhanded me so hard my feet left the ground. Said red was the color of whores and he'd thought I had more class."
She touched her left cheekbone, fingers finding the faint ridge where bone had knit differently. "Split my lip, loosened a tooth. I packed a bag while he showered. He came out in his robe, saw the suitcase, walked me to the door, kissed the unbruised side of my face, and said: 'Be back before ten tomorrow. We have brunch with the governor.' Like I'd just forgotten milk at the store."
Her voice cracked on governor. She pressed the heel of her hand to her sternum, trying to push air past the constriction.
"I should've kept walking. Should've gone to a shelter, called cops, something. But he'd paid my rent six months ahead, bought my textbooks for fall semester, sent my grandma a check for a new roof on her trailer. I owed him. That's what he said—I owed him. And he was sorry, so sorry. Bought me white lilies because white was pure, like I should be. Lay them on the pillow beside the ice pack."
She looked at the floor again, shame crawling like ants under her skin. "I stayed."
The lamp buzzed. Jace hadn't shifted an inch, but the air around him felt charged, like the moment before lightning. Still, he waited. Letting her empty the poison at her own pace.
"The rules got... complicated. I couldn't wear perfume unless he chose it. Couldn't answer my phone after nine. Couldn't laugh at male cashiers, couldn't look male teachers in the eye. Couldn't leave the grocery store without texting him the receipt. Every violation had a price—sometimes a shove into a wall, sometimes a grip on my arm that left finger-shaped bruises hidden under long sleeves. Once he locked me on the balcony overnight—in January—because I smiled at the valet. Said the cold would remind me who owned my warmth."
She had to stop. Her throat was closing. She reached for the water glass she'd refused earlier, hands shaking so badly she nearly spilled. Jace moved then—slow, telegraphing—took the glass, refilled it from the pitcher on the counter, set it back in her grip without touching her. His movement was careful, deliberate, the way you approached a horse that'd been whipped too many times.
"Drink," he said gently. "Then only if you want to."
She sipped, grateful for the task. When she could speak again, the words came smaller, more breakable.
"Six months became a year. Then two. Each time I tried to leave, he had leverage. My grandma's address. Photos of my little sister's PTA meetings. Notes about my ex-boyfriend's new job across town. Once I found a private investigator's report on my best friend—where she drank coffee, what time she walked her dog. He never said he'd hurt them. Just... let me see that he could. That he knew where they lived."
She tugged at her sleeves, pulling them over her palms. "I stopped trying to leave. Started trying to survive instead. Learned to read the set of his shoulders when he walked through the door, the tempo of his breathing when he checked his phone. I could tell by the way he loosened his tie whether I'd need makeup to cover a bruise that night. I learned to sleep with one eye open, to wake when the mattress shifted, to keep my voice steady even when my ribs were cracked. I became the best fucking actress in Arizona."
She laughed then—sharp, bitter. "You know what the joke is? He never called it abuse. He called it 'coaching.' Said I was lucky to have a man who cared enough to correct me before the world could. Said if I loved him, I'd want to be perfect for him. If I cried, he'd hold me and tell me he hated to discipline me, but weakness had to be burned out like infection. Sometimes he'd cry too—big, beautiful tears—and say he only hurt me because he loved me so deeply it scared him."
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You start to believe it. That maybe love looks like this. That maybe you're the broken one who needs fixing. That if you were just better—less loud, less visible, less you—he wouldn't need to be rough. You start apologizing for breathing too loud, for having opinions, for existing in spaces that belong to him."
She paused, gathering the strength for the worst part. "The night I left... we were hosting a dinner for some Colombian investors. I wore this navy dress he picked—long sleeves, high neck, legs covered. One of the investors complimented my English. Victor smiled, poured wine, carved the roast. After they left, he waited until the staff cleared the dishes. Then he took me to the balcony and held my face over the railing—twentieth floor—and explained that I'd embarrassed him by speaking before being spoken to. Said queens don't chatter. Said I needed to remember my place."
She touched the thin scar along her hairline, hidden now by carefully styled bangs. "He pressed until my feet left the tile, held me there while I sobbed that I was sorry, that I'd be good, that I'd never speak again if he wanted. When he pulled me back, he kissed my forehead and said: 'I forgive you, mi amor. Now be quiet while I shower.'"
Her hands were shaking again. She pressed them between her knees.
"I packed while the water ran. Took cash I'd been skimming from grocery money, the PI's report, my passport, and the flash drive from his home office—the one with cartel ledgers I'd copied during tax season. I left the jewelry, left the designer clothes, left everything except the shoes on my feet and the bruises he gave me. Walked out while conditioner scent drifted under the bathroom door. I never said goodbye to the red dress he burned in the fireplace the next week—I read about it in the investigator's notes when they searched my abandoned Honda in long-term parking."
She looked up finally, expecting to see pity or horror. Instead she found something that broke her open: pure, undiluted rage on Jace's behalf—not at her, but for her. His knuckles were white, jaw clenched so tight she could see the pulse in his temple, but his voice when he spoke was barely above a whisper.
"What was her name?"
It took her a second. "My grandmother? Rose."
"She die before this started?"
"Last year of high school. Cancer. Victor never met her—used old photos to find the trailer park address."
Jace nodded slowly. "Good. I'd hate to think of her knowing what happened to her girl."
The simplicity of it—his concern for Rose's peace rather than Victor's crimes—sent tears she'd promised herself she wouldn't cry sliding down her cheeks.
"You don't... you don't think I'm pathetic? For staying? For letting him—"
"Stop." The word cracked like a whip. He moved then—not toward her, but to kneel in front of her, putting them at eye level. "Look at me."
She did, expecting condemnation, finding instead something that shattered the last of her defenses.
"You survived a trained predator with unlimited resources and a fetish for control. You out-thought him, outlasted him, and when you had a sliver of opportunity, you took evidence that could bring down a cartel. That makes you the strongest person I've ever met. And if I ever hear you use the word 'let' again in reference to his abuse, I'll—" He stopped, sucked in a breath. "I'll remind you every damn day until you believe it wasn't your fault."
She sobbed then—ugly, hiccupping tears that came from so deep they felt dredged from bone. He stayed where he was, close enough for her to smell cedar and oil, far enough that she didn't feel trapped. When she could breathe again, she wiped her face with the sleeve of her shirt.
"I'm sorry for crying on your rug."
"Rug's washable. You're not." He reached out slowly, giving her time to flinch, and brushed a knuckle across the wet track on her cheek. "Feel better or worse?"
"Better. And worse. Like puking after bad steak."
"Accurate analogy. You want to stop here?"
She shook her head. "Need to finish. Need you to know what you're claiming."
So she told him the rest—Greyhounds and cash motels, fake IDs and diner jobs, working bars where men like Marco found her because Victor's reach stretched further than any law. She told him about the morning in Phoenix when she'd seen her own face on a cartel warning poster tacked to a laundromat bulletin board. About the night in Denver when she'd woken to a cracked window and a lily on her pillow. About learning to sleep with knives, to wake at the creak of floorboards, to trust no one because anyone could be bought.
When she finally wound down, the lamp had burned lower and her voice was raw as sandpaper. Jace had shifted to sit beside her, leaving a careful six inches between them—not touching, but present. His breathing had stayed steady throughout, a counter-rhythm to her staccato sentences, but she could feel the banked violence in the set of his shoulders.
"Your turn," she said finally, wiping her face with her sleeve. "Fair's fair."
He stared at the opposite wall for so long she thought he might refuse. When he spoke, his voice was the same flat tone he used when discussing cartel logistics, like the information needed to be handled with tools rather than hands.
"I was sixteen the first time I realized monsters wore friendly faces. My mom brought home her new boyfriend—salesman, clean-shaven, brought me baseball cards and called me sport. Took us camping, taught me to drive stick, bought mom a microwave—the new kind with a turntable. She laughed more in those months than the whole decade after my dad OD'd. Then the jokes got mean. Then the microwave dented when he threw it. Then her laugh sounded like broken glass."
He rubbed the scar on his wrist—thin, silver, shaped like a crescent. "Took me two years to get big enough to stand between them. By then she'd stopped laughing altogether. One night he put her through the coffee table because dinner was late. I broke his jaw with a cast-iron skillet. He pressed charges—assault, minor, sent me to juvie. She wrote letters apologizing for my temper. Said I misunderstood. Said she tripped."
The lamp flickered again, casting shadows that danced like ghosts across his cheekbones.
"When I got out, they'd moved to Tucson. I hitched down there senior year, found her waitressing with yellow bruises shaped like fingerprints. She begged me to leave, said he was different now, said love was complicated. I stayed anyway—slept in shelters, worked construction under the table, walked her home every night. He'd wait until I left for work, then do it anyway. Called it 'correction.' Said weak women needed strong men to guide them."
He paused, throat working. "She died my graduation week—'fell down stairs' according to the report. He collected insurance, moved to Portland. My sister Crystal—she was twelve—went with him because mom had begged her to 'keep the peace.' She hung herself two years later from a motel shower rod. He got another payout—suicide clause he fought in court. Used it to buy a boat."
The room felt colder, like the desert had reached through adobe and brick to settle in her bones. Sadie reached out slowly, touched the back of his hand with just her fingertips. He turned his palm up, let her lace their fingers together.
"Joined the Army the day after Crystal's funeral. Figured if I couldn't protect my own blood, I'd protect someone else's. Got trained in violence by people who understood it—the proper way to end threats, the calculus of acceptable losses. Came home to find him selling used cars in Scottsdale. Married again. Wife had a daughter about Crystal's age. I drank for three months trying to decide whether to kill him slow or fast. Then 9/11 happened and Uncle Sam offered me a legal outlet for homicidal rage."
He rolled his shoulder like it ached with memory. "Three tours. Built a reputation—guys started calling me Saint because I kept dragging wounded out of hot zones. Never left anyone behind. Came home to find monsters wearing the same suits they'd always worn, preying on people who couldn't fight back. Decided if the system wouldn't defend them, I'd build one that would. Iron Kings started in a garage with four vets and a box of stolen guns. Purpose was simple: protect the people who can't protect themselves. Patch meant something—you bled for civilians, you bled for brothers, you never bled alone. Never again."
He looked at her finally, something fierce and fractured in his expression. "I know what it is to feel helpless while someone you love gets erased day by day by hands that claim to cherish. I know what it costs to run, to stay, to survive. I know the taste of bile when you realize the world isn't fair and no amount of righteous anger fixes that. What I don't know is how to let it happen again. Not to you. Not on my patch."
The lamp had burned to embers now, casting long shadows that made his face more bone than flesh. In the dimness, she could see the boy he'd been—sixteen and furious, watching his mother fade under fists disguised as affection. Could see the soldier he'd become—dragging broken bodies through sand while bureaucrats signed condolence letters. Could see the man he'd forged from violence and necessity—president of a kingdom built on the bones of people who'd learned too young that love could be weaponized.
"I'm not asking you to fix this," she said quietly. "I'm asking you to understand why I need to stand in my own fights. Why I can't be another person you protect from the sidelines."
He squeezed her fingers gently. "I understand more than you think. But you need to understand something too—when I promised you safety, I didn't mean I'd build a cage. I meant I'd stand beside you while you burn the whole fucking kingdom down if that's what you need. Victor, Marco—anyone who tries to own what isn't theirs—they'll learn what it means to declare war on Iron Kings. And they'll learn what it means to threaten the woman I love."
The words settled between them, heavy and irrefutable as gravity. She stared at their joined hands—hers small and scarred, his large and marked by a lifetime of violence chosen in service of protection. Two survivors who'd learned opposite lessons—she'd learned to run, he'd learned to fight. Maybe together they could write a new playbook.
"I love you too," she said simply. "I don't know how to do this—trust, stay, build—but I'm learning. You make me want to try."
He smiled then—not the charming grin that disarmed strangers or the predator's baring of teeth that warned enemies, but something softer. Younger. The sixteen-year-old boy who'd failed to save his family and had kept trying anyway.
"Then we'll figure it out together," he said. "Day by day. Fight by fight. Choice by choice. And when Victor or any other bastard comes calling, we'll remind them that some things are worth bleeding for. Some people are worth burning kingdoms to ash."
Outside, dawn crept across the desert, painting the sky the same red as old blood and new beginnings. Inside, two broken people sat on a worn rug, fingers entwined, and began the slow work of choosing something neither had believed possible—a future built not on survival, but on living.