“Maybe now you’ll listen,” he murmured.
I stood there shaking, one hand instinctively moving to my stomach, my vision blurring as tears burned behind my eyes, and I searched desperately for authority, for safety, for someone to intervene, but the bailiff was near the doors, my attorney was absent, and the judge had not yet taken the bench.
“You should cry louder,” Elara sneered, leaning close enough that I could smell her perfume. “Maybe the judge will feel sorry for you.”
That was when I lifted my gaze toward the bench, finally ready to say the words I had swallowed for years, ready to ask for protection, ready to admit out loud that the man I married was dangerous.
And the judge looked back at me like the air had been punched from his lungs.
Judge Samuel Rowan.
Tall, composed, known for his strict adherence to procedure, with dark hair streaked faintly with gray and eyes the exact same shade as mine, eyes I had seen reflected back at me every day growing up, eyes that had watched over me since childhood even when I pretended I didn’t need anyone anymore.
His hand tightened around the edge of the bench, knuckles whitening, his jaw clenching as his gaze locked onto mine, and for one brief, terrifying moment, the years collapsed into memory.
My brother.
I hadn’t seen him in nearly four years.
