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Sunday. We usually have brunch at eleven if you’d like to join us,” she added.
    “That would be lovely. Thank you again.” Evan stood. “I appreciate your candor. I’ll let you folks get to bed. I’ll be back in the morning.” He headed for the door. He hadn’t taken his coat off and he hadn’t had a single sip of the coffee that sat on the table in front of him.
    He needed to get out of there before he lost his mind breathing in his mate’s scent. Even though she shared the home with her parents, her smell permeated every crevasse.
    With a nod at the people he hoped would be his future in-laws, he left, closing the door behind him and jogging toward his car. Leaving his mate like this time and again was going to be the death of him. But it couldn’t be helped.
    •●•
    Ashley paced her bedroom, trying to listen to the conversation going on in the living room. She couldn’t hear much, but it sounded civil. No way in hell could she simply go to bed and fall asleep. Her heart was beating out of her chest, her hands were sweating profusely, and her libido had taken a sharp jump on the Richter scale.
    No matter how hard she tried to prevent her body’s reaction to Evan, it was useless. For the millionth time, she berated herself for ever being so weak as to stay with Damon for so long. It had never been more obvious than it was now that he was never her mate. He’d insisted he was, but he’d lied.
    She’d been over this with her counselor so many times, but she still beat herself up wondering why she hadn’t walked away from him. Especially in the last few years when he’d gotten lax and simply left her alone in the apartment. She could have walked out the door any day and never turned back. Why? Because of some babble about something called Stockholm Syndrome.
    If she had, she wouldn’t be as damaged as she viewed herself now.
    She heard the front door shut and assumed Evan had left. Exhaling, partially in relief and partially in despair, she flopped down on her bed and hugged her pillow to her chest. She curled her knees underneath her and tucked them into her skirt. Any time she was stressed she reverted to this tight ball to escape life. She’d done it for years with Damon and she still did it whenever anxiety struck.
    She could hear Dr. Parman’s words ringing in her head from countless sessions. “You are not to blame… You are the victim… You did nothing to provoke Damon’s behavior.”
    At the encouragement of Dr. Parman, Ashley had done her own research on other women who had gone through similar ordeals. Women taken from their lives and forced to obey their captor for years until they were rescued. Brainwashed. All of them. Beaten down until they felt they had no alternative but to stay.
    Besides the physical abuse, nearly every victim of such a crime, Ashley included, had endured tremendous psychological abuse—nouns and verbs that forced them to question their self-worth, repeated badgering that led them to believe they deserved what they’d received, and threats made to harm their family and friends should they try to escape.
    Intellectually, she had come to understand why everything happened the way it had, but deep inside she might never feel quite worthy of love or companionship from anyone, especially not someone claiming to be her mate.
    Not that there was any doubt. Evan was clearly her mate.
    Tears leaked down her face. Why couldn’t she have met him before Damon? Why now?
    She couldn’t stand for anyone to touch her, even after six months of therapy. Even her own mother made her flinch.
    How could she ever enter into a normal relationship with a man?
    A knock sounded at the door. “Ashley?” The muffled voice of her mother reached through the door to soothe her. A moment later, the door creaked open and her mother stepped inside. “You okay?”
    No. I’ll never be okay .
    She couldn’t bring herself to tell her parents that though. They were hurting at least as much as