Brave Pig goes up the stairs. He returns head first. No axe. All body parts intact. He is followed down the stairs by Max, Jake, Rampage, and Homicide. Yay!

Everyone not tied to a chair jumps up. For a moment, the room is still and quiet. Relief wells up in my chest and explodes in a sob. Max’s head jerks around and his eyes rake over my swollen, bleeding face and then travel over the ropes on my hands and feet. His nostrils flare and his lips pull back, baring his teeth. The air around him ripples and changes. His body tenses and swells; his muscles and veins strain against his skin. I almost expect him to change form—maybe a werewolf or werebeast. I have seen his anger and it scared me. This is not anger. This is rage.

Max explodes into motion. He barrels toward Misery, tossing chairs and crates and the blond out of his way. One of them hits the wall with a sickening crunch—a chair, not the blond.

Jake throws a punch at a recovered Pig. He squeals, as pigs do. Rampage and Homicide untie Amanda and me and usher us into the corner. They tell us there are more men fighting outside and we are safer in a small, confined space with four raging, out-of-control giants attacking each other. I disagree. I am outvoted.

Max attacks Misery with the kind of vigor only reserved for really dirty ovens. Fists fly. Bones crunch. He does not hold back. My stomach clenches tighter and tighter. This is nothing like the club. This is real. Forget the werebeast; Max is violence with a capital V.

Misery pulls out a knife. Not just a knife. A dagger.

“Oh God. Max is going to be killed.”

Rampage laughs. He cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Yo. Torment. Misery’s the one who beat on your girl.”

Max stills, and for a heartbeat, I imagine fear flickers across Misery’s face, or maybe it was just a muscle twitch. In a blur of motion, Max closes the distance between them and lets loose. My body convulses and I grab the wastepaper basket, retching over and over again. Amanda holds my hair and rubs my back. Rampage hands me a bottle of water. By the time I can sit up again, the fight is over. Misery is down and groaning on the floor.

Max surveys the room. His eyes skim over me, pausing briefly on the basket. Then he stalks across the room, grabs my hand, and yanks me up the stairs.

Sirens sound in the distance, drawing near. Someone must have called the police.

“How did you find me?”

“Tracking device in your phone.”

Max drags me across the lawn to a garden shed surrounded by trees. With one kick, he breaks down the door and pulls me inside. He slams the door closed and my eyes adjust to the dark. Thin, wavering filaments of light from houses and streetlights find their way through cracks in the wood. Enough to see the fury in Max’s face. His eyes are wide, the pupils almost black. His neck is corded with tension. His face is all hard planes and angles, dark with shadows. I barely recognize him.

“You promised you would never come here.” His body shakes so violently, I am afraid to touch him. He is barely in control, and a shiver of fear winds its way up my spine.

“I couldn’t let Amanda come here alone.”

“You promised you would never put yourself in danger.”

“I had no choice. She’s my best friend.”

His nostrils flare, and he folds his arms across his chest. “Take off your clothes.”

My heart pounds frantically against my ribs. I’ve never been claustrophobic, but in this tiny, dark shed smelling of gasoline and grass clippings, and with Max looming large in front of me, I can barely breathe.

“I don’t want to be here.”

“Take off your clothes.” He forces every word through clenched teeth as if speaking is an effort.

“Why?” My voice is thin and high, almost a whine.

“Goddamn it, Makayla. For once, just do what I say. Take. Off. Your. Clothes.”

I step backward until I hit the safety of the wall. My eyes flick to the door behind him. He catches the direction of my gaze.

“You aren’t leaving until you take off your clothes.”

I wrap my arms around myself in an effort to stop trembling. “No.”

“Fuck.” He closes the distance between us in two long strides, and grabs my shoulders. He slants his mouth over mine and kisses me hard, crushing my lips, banging my teeth. Fierce kiss. Frightening kiss. The smell of his rage fills my nostrils, thick and suffocating like wood smoke. The world tilts. He grabs my top and yanks it over my head. Cold air blasts against my skin. Fear and confusion freeze my brain.

“Max,” I whisper. “Please. No.” Instinct screams for me to run. He is out of control. But part of me still believes he won’t hurt me.

His hands drop to my waist, and he jerks my yoga pants over my hips and shoves them down to my ankles. He steps back, and his eyes rake over my body, cold and detached. Not the look of a lover, but of a stranger.

Although I am still wearing my bra and panties, I instinctively try to cover up. I wrap one arm around my br**sts and the other over my hip. My hand fans over the juncture of my thighs.

“Don’t cover yourself from me.” He enunciates each word, shooting them at me like arrows.

A sob wells up in my throat. I drop my arms and look away. I cannot bear to look at him or to see this stranger looking at me through Max’s eyes.

Max grasps my shoulders and pulls me away from the wall. His hands slide over my body, his touch rough, perfunctory, and impersonal. His hands linger over my belly. I bite my lip and tears trickle down my cheeks. He spins me around, and his cold assessment continues over my back, my bu**ocks, and my legs. By the time he is finished, I am sobbing out loud. A black hole has formed inside me. I have never felt so alone or, disconcertingly, so ashamed.