She’s been gone way too long. I finish my food and some speakers line up at the podium, getting ready to spout some time-to-give-up-your-cash motivation.

I’m surrounded by rich people, and my protective instinct for Penny is on high alert near her brother. We need out.

I untie my tie and put it in my pocket. I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks.

The man who’s been side-eyeing me from two seats over, the hulking man Penny calls brother—someone from the podium calls his name and he gets up to a round of applause. I nearly leap from my seat to follow him.

But I stop myself. He’s going to a podium to do some rich people talk. He’s no danger to Penny up there. I glance in the direction she left in, ready to go search for her, but she and Layla are walking back toward the table. Finally.

Blake begins his speech in short but formal phrases. For such an angry man, he covers it for the crowd with stiffness and abruptness. He’s direct, which I would respect, if he wasn’t such a loose cannon around Penny.

I expect him to mention his father and how this hospital wouldn’t be here without him. Others have mentioned “the sadness of Malcolm Vandershall’s passing,” but Blake does not. He devotes his two minutes to someone else.

“My mother.” Blake looks down, unable to look at the crowd. “Led a pain-filled life. One I wanted to, but was unable, to save her from, and this hospital is—”

Pain-filled? What about his mother’s life was painful? She died tragically. That much her hospital records showed. No woman wants to die giving birth, but it happens. The way he says it, though, makes me wonder something I’ve never thought of before.

His mother was married to his father. She couldn’t have been safe from him. Do Blake and I have something in common? Was his mother’s life ripped apart by his father the same as my sister’s was? I glance at Penny, who has stopped halfway to the table.

She turns her stare from her brother to me, and the horror on her face matches my realization. We never thought of it, but it makes sense. Penny’s mother couldn’t have escaped her father.

I go to Penny, her face paling.

Blake finishes his speech and applause breaks as I reach her. “Do you want to leave?” I whisper.

I touch her shoulder and she leans into me. “Yeah.”

Behind her, Layla asks, “What’s wrong?”

I brush her aside so we can pass. “It’s time for us to go home.”

Layla follows us. “But why? Penny, are you feeling okay?”

Not stopping, I rush Penny faster, hoping Layla will give up, but she doesn’t. We reach the grand foyer of the club, the giant chandeliers overhead, one set of doors leading to the oceanfront, the other onto the parking lot.

“Penny!” Blake shouts from behind us.

I press her forward. “Don’t stop.”

But she ignores me and turns to face her brother. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He stops, fury making his shoulders taut. “Tell you what?” His voice echoes through the hall, and the few people standing around stare.

Penny shouts back, “He hurt her!”

“Hurt her? What—who are you talking about?” He’s stuttering, faking. He knows exactly what she’s asking, and he’s been hiding it from her for her whole life.

She steps forward, confronting him, getting far closer than I like. “‘Her pain-filled life’? She wasn’t sick. Why was she in pain, Blake?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I never lied to you!”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He snarls. “Because there was nothing to tell.”

“You’re hiding something.”

His hands bunch into fists, but he refuses to answer.

Penny, in her upset, doesn’t realize how volatile he is. Afraid he might grab her again like last weekend, I shove between them. “That’s enough. We’re going.”

Blake points at me with daggers in his eyes. “You! This is your fault.”

I back Penny toward the exit. “Your father did that by himself. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Everything was fine until you came. You fucked it all up!”

“No!” Penny screams and pushes me out of the way. “He’s making it right. What’s been fucked up for years is finally getting fixed because of him. You could’ve done that and you chose not to!”

The growl in his throat makes me tug at Penny. “We need to go.”

She shakes me off and shouts at her brother. “You did nothing! You knew what a horrible man he was and did NOTHING!”

“I did EVERYTHING!” He shouts at the top of his lungs, his face and arms contracting in rage.

I grab Penny around the waist and pull her out of Blake’s way. “Penny, you can talk to him another time about this. Somewhere not in public. Sometime when he’s not so angry.”

Blake covers his face and growls through his fingers, “He’s right. Go.”

Penny stops and stares at him—his shaking hands. He turns away so we can’t see his face and lets out a yell that is so full of anguish, even I feel bad for the guy. I’m consumed with questions. What happened to him?

She takes a step toward him, but I pull her back. “Tomorrow,” I say. “He needs space right now.”

Layla nods. “You should go.”

Penny reluctantly lets me guide her out the door to the car. The valet brings her Lexus around, and she holds her emotions together until we’re inside.

Then she grits her teeth and screams. “Why? How could he keep it a secret from me?”

I’m dumfounded I missed it too. Of course her mother was a victim. “It makes sense. We just didn’t see it.”

She screams again in frustration and repeats to herself, “I will not cry. I will not cry. I have to do something!”

“Yes.” She could be in a puddle of tears right now. A week ago she would’ve been. Instead, she’s fueling herself for action.

“How do I make this right?”

“You’ll find a way.” And so will I—for her. I drive faster, speeding for home.

“I have to. This can’t go on. I have to fix this. How could he keep this from me?”

“He should’ve told you.”

“Do you think . . .” She covers her face. “My God. He was only six years old when she died.” Which means . . . Her breath stops and so does mine.

He was less than six while his father was hurting his mother, and somehow he knew about it.

My stomach twists itself in knots. Hearing that Penny’s mom was a victim too—it’s like learning the truth about my sister all over again. I shake the thoughts from my head and drive faster. If she won’t give in to being upset, neither will I.

Inside the condo, she places her purse on the table and turns to me. “I know what I want to do. At least right now.” The slope of her shoulder, the curve of her hip, the line of her legs—the desire in her eyes.

“What do you want?” I know. But I want her to say it. She needs to say it.

She steps toward me. “It doesn’t make it right, but it makes it better for me.”

“It’s the same. If it makes it better for you, then it is right.”

She reaches for my cheek, her finger grazing my jaw. “Thank you.” Her eyes, those depthless blue pools had scared me. I didn’t want to see myself, I didn’t want to lose myself. But it’s changed.

Somehow I’m less afraid. “Thank you for what?”

“For the truth. You didn’t have to give it to me. But you did.”

I swallow, unable to hide how it eases my guilt to hear it. “I didn’t want to. I wish I could’ve kept it from you.”

“But I needed to know.”

“You needed to know.”

I stroke her cheek. “Your brother should’ve told you.” Her eyes glaze, and she struggles to keep eye contact with me. “You deserve the truth.”

Her tears brim and drip onto her cheeks.

I kiss the little drops. “Cry into me. Give me your sadness. Let me help you.” The way I’ve always wanted to help and be helped.

She pulls my head down, and her sweet lips pour grief and gratitude into my mouth. It feels too good not to accept. My life has been one of fighting, for my sister’s life, for the right to tell her story. And this woman kissing me—she’s allowed me to tell it.

And she’s thanking me for it.

Her mouth is a haven, a safe place for me. I want to be the same for her.

I lift her. Her head level with mine, I nuzzle into her mouth and massage her lips with all the softness and gentleness that I feel in her and that I want to be.

The softness that is her—that before I wanted to wreck—now I see I was afraid of it. Afraid of how much I wanted to lose myself in it.

The need is there, the need to seize control of her, to use her, to tease her until she begs for me to let her come.

But I ignore it this time.

I want to savor her. To soak in what she’s giving me, and give to her everything she begs for, before she even begs.

I ease her legs around my hips.

“My room, this time,” she says against my mouth.

“Yes.”