Chapter 7 7

Spencer's hand never made contact.

A hand-large, tanned, and wearing a Patek Philippe watch-shot out from nowhere and grabbed Spencer's wrist.

Garrick.

He didn't look angry. He looked bored. Which was infinitely more terrifying.

"Touch her," Garrick said softly, "and you lose the hand."

He shoved Spencer backward. Spencer stumbled, nearly dropping his cigar.

"Jesus, G," Spencer laughed nervously, rubbing his wrist. "It was a joke. You're so uptight lately."

Garrick pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hand, methodically cleaning each finger as if he had touched rotting meat. He didn't look at Spencer. He dropped the handkerchief on the ground, a silent, devastating insult.

"Change," Garrick said to Ever, not looking at Spencer. "We're playing polo."

He steered her into the club, his hand heavy on the small of her back. She could feel the tension radiating off him. His muscles were coiled tight, like a spring ready to snap.

In the women's locker room, Ever changed into the riding gear he had pre-ordered for her. White breeches, tall leather boots. Through the thin wall, she heard Spencer's voice in the men's locker room.

"Stupid bitch," Spencer was yelling. Then a slap. A sharp, wet sound. Then sobbing.

Ever froze, one boot half on. It was his date. The girl he had brought.

Her stomach churned. It sounded like St. Mary's. It sounded like the nights Clay had to fight off the older boys.

Ever walked out to the stables. The smell of hay and horse manure was grounding. It was the one smell money couldn't synthesize.

"I didn't know you could ride," Garrick said, watching her approach.

"I learned... at a summer camp," Ever lied. She learned on a swaybacked mare named Bessie at the orphanage farm. She was the only living thing that didn't judge her.

Garrick mounted a massive black stallion. He gestured for the groom to help Ever up onto a mare, but she swung herself up into the saddle before the groom could touch her.

Garrick raised an eyebrow. "Impressive."

He rode up beside her. He reached over, correcting her grip on the reins. His chest pressed against her back, his arm encircling her. It looked like instruction. It felt like a cage.

"You're mine, Ever," he whispered into her hair. "My canary. You only fly where I tell you."

Ever stared straight ahead, feeling the bile rise in her throat.

They rode out onto the field. Spencer was there, mounted on a grey gelding. He looked angry. Humiliated.

The game began. It wasn't a real match, just a scrimmage, but Spencer was playing dirty. He cut off Ever's line twice.

Then, on a straightaway, he veered. He spurred his horse, slamming its shoulder into Ever's mare's flank.

Her horse stumbled. Ever lost a stirrup. She teetered, the ground rushing up to meet her.

A strong arm grabbed her bicep. Garrick. He had anticipated the move. He hauled her upright, steadying her horse with brute strength.

"Are you insane?" Garrick roared at Spencer.

"Oops," Spencer smirked. "Horse spooked."

They rode back to the sidelines. Spencer dismounted and stormed over to his date, a young girl with tear-streaked makeup holding a water bottle.

"You're too slow!" Spencer yelled. He slapped the bottle out of her hand. Then he grabbed her arm, shaking her.

The girl cried out.

Something inside Ever snapped. The fear vanished, replaced by a white-hot rage. She saw herself in that girl. She saw every woman who had ever been bullied by a man with a checkbook.

Ever slid off her horse and ran over.

"Let her go!" Ever screamed.

She shoved Spencer. It was like shoving a wall, but he was so surprised he let go of the girl.

"Stay out of this, whore," Spencer spat. He raised his riding crop.

Ever flinched, closing her eyes, waiting for the sting.

The impact never came. Instead, she heard a sickening crunch.

Ever opened her eyes. Garrick was there. He hadn't just punched Spencer; he had executed a single, calculated strike to the nose that sent Spencer sprawling into the dirt. There was no wild rage in Garrick's movement, only a terrifying, clinical precision. He stood over his bleeding friend, his chest heaving slightly, looking less like a brawler and more like an executioner.

The entire club had gone silent.

Garrick Head, the billionaire who never lost his temper, had just drawn blood.

For Ever.