Behind him, the clerk didn't miss a beat. "Identification and proof of divorce, please," she said to the next in line.
Outside, May was pacing in tight circles near his car, one hand dragging through her hair, the other clenched tight.
"May! May!" Mark called. "Come on! Tell me what's going on."
She stopped, facing him with wild eyes. "I swear, I wasn't married. I swear, Mark. Or at least, I didn't know. I wouldn't have said yes to you if I did."
Mark closed the distance between them, his tall frame casting a shadow over her. He reached for her wrist, just enough for her to feel his grip. "May, calm down. Tell me. Maybe this is something we can fix.".
She shook her head. "I told you I came to this town because I was running from something. I ran from my family."
Mark's eyes narrowed, scanning her face. His mind was already working—running scenarios, imagining what kind of family could have the resources to bind someone in marriage without their consent. Wealth? Influence?
"I'm guessing we are going to have that talk I have been avoiding, uhn?" he said finally
"How about I get you home and you can tell me all about it?"
May nodded again, slower this time, and he stepped closer, his palm splaying against the small of her back. The touch was steady, grounding—but also a subtle reminder. She might be running from her past, but she wasn't running from him.
He opened the passenger door, She slid into the seat, her knees drawn together, hands twisting in her lap.
The house was still quiet when they arrived, sunlight spilling in lazy gold stripes through the lace curtains. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked, twice—an ordinary day sound that felt wildly at odds with the storm rolling inside May's chest.
Nelly and Adelita had gone to one of their book club readings—a weekly ritual where the older women disappeared into a swirl of gossip and coffee, leaving the house steeped in stillness.
Mark opened the door for her, his palm briefly pressing to the small of her back, a subtle grounding touch, but his eyes… his eyes were searching.
May's legs felt like wet sandbags by the time she sank into the sofa, her fingers curling into the cushion as if she could anchor herself to it. The trembling wouldn't stop; it was in her hands, in her breath, in the tightness in her throat.
He stood over her for a moment, broad shoulders blocking out part of the window light. "So," he said, "what's happening?"
May lifted her gaze to him, her lips parting on a shaky inhale. "I think I better show you," she said softly.
She reached for the buttons of her shirt. Mark sat beside her, forearms braced on his knees, fingers loosely interlaced.
When the shirt gaped open, she turned her back to him, letting the fabric slide from her shoulders. The pale expanse of her skin was broken by jagged ridges—angry, twisted scars.
Mark's breath hissed out between his teeth. "My God…How?"
May's hands trembled as she pulled the shirt back on, her movements jerky, rushed. She faced him again, chin lifted as though bracing for judgment. "The Kingsley I am supposedly married to did that to me," she said quietly, but each word was a stone dropped in still water. "After my uncle and his wife gave me to him to settle their debts."
"Uh… excuse me?" Mark's brows shot up. "Give you to settle debts?" His hands curled into fists on his knees.
"Yeah." Her laugh was brittle, humourless. "I had nowhere to turn. Kingsley was the most dangerous man in town. He owned the police, so I couldn't go there. I was… tortured, locked up, starved for months because I—" she swallowed hard, "—because I didn't want to be with him. The first opportunity I got, I ran away with just a few things I could carry. Took a bus and left town. Found myself here."
She glanced around the familiar living room, as if reassuring herself it was still her sanctuary. "The first house I walked into looking for a job was here." Her gaze returned to him, almost pleading. "I tried to tell you, Mark, but it just seemed like you were more interested in the present than the past. I'm so sorry."
Mark moved. He knelt in front of her, his hands coming to rest on her knees, firm enough that she couldn't instinctively draw back. His eyes were dark, his jaw tight.
"May," he said. "You don't apologise to me for surviving." His thumbs stroked her knees once.
"Mark—"
"It's okay. This is a minor issue," Mark said. His thumb brushed along her jaw as if smoothing away the panic on her skin. "We could file for an annulment. How did he get your signature on a marriage certificate?"
"It… it must have been forged," May answered. She couldn't quite meet his eyes, because she knew what that name—Kingsley Pritchard—brought with it: memories that still stank of blood and fear.
He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his chest with a comforting grip. "It's going to be okay, honey. It's just a minor setback. It can be resolved."
The word honey said she belonged here, in his arms, where no one would touch her without going through him first.
He let her sob into him for a bit, his hand sliding up and down her back in long, steady strokes.
"That explains a bit," he murmured after a while.
"What?" May asked, pulling back just enough to catch the shadow of a smile on his lips.
"I used to think you didn't want to be intimate because you weren't at that point yet," he said. "I thought you didn't love me enough. Now I see it's about hiding the scars."
May was glad her face was pressed into his shoulder, because if he saw her eyes, he'd know that wasn't the truth. No, she hadn't pulled away just to hide the scars. She had always stopped him when things got a bit too much because… someone else had already ruined her, broken her in ways Mark couldn't imagine—had claimed her body in the most scintillating way possible.
Mark's fingers found her chin, tilting her face up so her eyes had nowhere to hide. "Nothing can scare me away unless you ask me to go."
She swallowed, her lips parting to speak, but he leaned in close, so close she could feel his breath when he murmured, "You're going to be mine, May. I don't care what some forged paper says."
He leaned down and kissed her in a slow way as if sealing a promise with his lips. The kiss told her more than his words ever could: that someone was on her side, scars and all, someone who wouldn't flinch from her past. His hands moved with quiet certainty, finding the hem of her shirt and pulling it over her head for the second time. There was nothing rushed or fumbling about the gesture—Mark's movements were confident. His palm settled at the base of her spine, before trailing upward in a slow caress.
When his mouth found her shoulders and neck, his breath warm against her skin, May closed her eyes and leaned into the sensation. The soft scrape of his stubble, the weight of his hands, the press of his chest against her—it was gentle, coaxing, safe. But as much as she wanted to sink into it, her mind betrayed her.
With Kade, it would have been different. Kade consumed. His touch was a command her body obeyed without question. One brush of his fingers and her nerves would have caught fire, every inch of her igniting in a rush that burned away thought. Stopping him? Impossible. Wanting to stop him? Laughable. The man reached in, grabbed the breath from her lungs, and left her desperate for more.
She loved Mark. She did. Mark was the man she could bring home without an ounce of shame, the man who would buy her a ridiculous coffee machine just because she'd once said she liked cappuccinos. But Kade… Mr. Kade… he was something else entirely. Her heart, her head, her body—all of them belonged to him in ways she didn't have the courage to admit out loud. It was need. A deep, gnawing hunger she feared would never be satisfied unless it was him.
She forced herself to focus on Mark. Just Mark. The man she planned to build a life with, have children with, watch sunsets beside when they were old and stubborn and still bickering about what movie to watch. She pictured the picket fence, the little garden she always wanted, Sunday mornings that smelled of coffee and warm cinnamon rolls. But even in that perfect vision, there was a shadow in the doorway—and it had Kade's eyes.
Mark's grip shifted, sliding down to her thighs, his fingers digging in with a sudden firmness that pulled her back into the moment. There was an edge in that touch—a flash of the man beneath the polished control. He pulled back just enough to search her face, his eyes narrowing slightly, reading the hesitation she hadn't managed to hide.