Chapter 2 :Echoes Of unwelcome

MARTHA’S POV

I stepped out of the cab, my sneakers hitting the pavement with a soft thud. My backpack hung heavy on one shoulder, pulling at my bruised arm. The street was quiet, too quiet, and the big gray house loomed ahead like a judgmental giant. My uncle’s place. I’d made it to Seattle, but my heart still raced from that car I’d seen—or thought I’d seen. Nicholas’s beat-up sedan, creeping up behind me. I rubbed my eyes, shaking my head. It couldn’t have been him. He’d gone to grab his stuff, probably tearing through our old apartment by now, cursing my name. I was imagining things, jumping at shadows. Still, my stomach twisted as I trudged up the walkway.

I pressed the doorbell, the chime echoing inside. Footsteps shuffled closer, and the door swung open. My uncle stood there, tall and wiry, his face sour as old milk. His eyes narrowed, raking over me like I was trash blown onto his porch. No hello, no nothing—just that stern, hateful glare that said I wasn’t welcome. He hated me, always had, ever since he took everything my parents left behind. But he’d signed papers years ago, making him my legal guardian after the crash. He couldn’t kick me out then, and he couldn’t now. Not legally, anyway.

“Claire said you were coming,” he grunted, stepping aside just enough for me to squeeze past. No warmth, no greeting. Typical.

I mumbled a weak “Hi,” but he was already turning away, stomping back to the living room. I shuffled inside, the door clicking shut behind me. The air smelled of garlic and onions—Aunt Claire cooking in the kitchen. My spirit sank lower, heavy with the weight of his silence. Then she appeared, wiping her hands on a towel, her round face softening when she saw me. She hurried over, pulling me into a hug that smelled like dish soap and comfort.

“Martha, sweetie,” she said, squeezing tight. “You’re here.”

I nodded into her shoulder, fighting the lump in my throat. She was the only one who cared, the only one who’d ever tried to help. When my uncle stole my parents’ money, she’d secretly stashed a little for me—enough to get me through high school and college. She’d been my lifeline while he played the devil, hoarding everything else.

She pulled back, glancing at my uncle. He’d plopped onto the couch, remote in hand, the TV blaring news about some stock market dip. His eyes stayed glued to the screen, ignoring us. Claire sighed and patted my arm. “Go upstairs, hon. Your old room’s ready. Freshen up—dinner’s almost done.”

I forced a small smile and headed for the stairs, my backpack thumping against my back with every step. The wood creaked under me, familiar and worn. My room was at the end of the hall, same as when I’d lived here after Mom and Dad died. I pushed the door open. A single bed with a faded quilt, a desk, a cracked mirror on the wall. Claire had dusted it, fluffed the pillows, but it still felt like a tomb. I dropped my bag and sank onto the mattress, the springs groaning under me.

Tears came fast, hot and silent, rolling down my cheeks. I buried my face in my hands, shoulders shaking. Here I was again, back in this house where I was nothing but a burden. My uncle’s glare burned in my mind, his hatred a weight I couldn’t shake. I’d run from Nicholas, from his fists and his venom, only to land in another cage. My chest ached, a hollow pit where hope used to be. What was I even doing?

A knock jolted me upright. I wiped my eyes quickly, sniffing. Claire’s voice came softly through the door. “Martha? Dinner’s ready. Come down, sweetie.”

“Okay,” I called, voice wobbly. I stood, smoothing my shirt, and trudged downstairs. The smell of roasted chicken hit me, warm and inviting, but my stomach stayed knotted.

Dinner was tense. I sat across from my uncle, Claire sat between us at the round table. She’d made chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, a comfort food I didn’t deserve. My uncle shoveled a bite into his mouth, chewing loud, his eyes flicking to me like I’d ruined his meal just by existing.

“So,” he said, voice gruff, “why’d you leave your husband? Thought you two were sorting out that divorce mess.”

I froze, fork halfway to my mouth. My throat tightened, tears pricking again. “I… I couldn’t stay with him.”

He snorted, leaning back in his chair. “Couldn’t stay? What’s that supposed to mean? You think you can just waltz back here whenever you feel like it?”

“George,” Claire cut in, sharp but quiet. “She’s been through enough.”

“Enough?” He slammed his fork down, making me flinch. “She’s a grown woman, Claire. She made her bed with that Nicholas guy, so let her lie in it. I don’t want her mooching off us again.”

My eyes burned, tears slipping free. I swiped at them, hating how small I felt. “I’m not mooching. I just needed somewhere to go.”

“Go back to him,” he snapped, pointing a finger at me. “Work it out. I don’t care what he did—you don’t get to dump your problems on my doorstep.”

“George, stop it,” Claire said, louder now. “She’s staying. That’s final.”

He glared at her, then me, his jaw tight. “Fine. But don’t expect me to play happy family.” He shoved his chair back, grabbed his plate, and stormed to the sink, leaving the air thick with his venom.

I stared at my food, appetite gone. Tears dripped onto my lap, and I wiped my face again, ashamed of how weak I looked. Claire reached over, squeezing my hand. “Ignore him, sweetie. You’re welcome here.”

I nodded, but the words didn’t stick. After dinner, I helped her clear the table, stacking plates in silence. She washed, I dried, the clink of dishes was the only sound. My uncle had disappeared upstairs, probably to sulk. I kept my head down, scrubbing a pot harder than I needed to, trying to block out his voice in my head.

Claire nudged me, her voice low. “Martha, I need a favor. It’s Lily, your cousin. She’s at some club downtown, she called me drunk out of her mind. I can’t go to her right now, work’s got me tied up—and George has a meeting he won’t skip. Can you get her?”

I blinked, surprised. Lily, my cousin, was a wild card—always had been. “Yeah, I can go. I… I could use the air anyway.”

She smiled, relieved. “Thanks, hon. Here’s the address.” She scribbled it on a napkin, handing it over. “Be careful, okay?”

I nodded, grabbed my jacket, and slipped out the door. The night was cool, the streets slick with a light drizzle. I took a bus downtown, the napkin crumpled in my fist. The club was called Neon Pulse, a pulsing mess of lights and bass when I stepped inside. My eyes widened, stomach churning. People writhed everywhere—kissing, grinding, hands roaming in ways that made my skin crawl.

A guy with a potbelly squeezed a girl’s chest, her laugh shrill. Two women tangled in a corner, half-naked, lips locked. Another man sucked on a stranger’s neck, loud and sloppy. This wasn’t any club—it was a den of chaos, a freaking orgy party.

I pushed through, searching for Lily. Her phone was off—I’d tried calling on the bus, I got nothing but voicemail. My heart pounded, the noise and bodies closing in. “Lily?” I called, voice lost in the thump of music. No sign of her blonde hair, her loud giggle. I spun around, disoriented, sweat beading on my neck.

A hand grabbed my arm, rough and sudden. I yelped, turning to face a guy with bleary eyes and a sloppy grin. “Hey, cutie, where are you going?”

“Let go,” I said, pulling back. His grip tightened, and another guy stumbled up, laughing, his breath sour with beer.

“Come on, don’t be shy,” the second one slurred, reaching for my waist. “Join the fun, we promise to go slowly.”

“Leave me alone!” I shouted, yanking harder, but they dragged me toward a dark corner, their hands like traps. My chest seized, panic choking me. “I’m not here for this, please. Let me go!”

They laughed, tugging me along, my sneakers slipping on the sticky floor. I twisted, desperate, when a shadow loomed behind them. A voice cut through, deep and commanding. “Leave her alone, now!”

The guys froze, then stumbled as someone yanked them away. I lost my balance, missing a step as I fell backward straight into strong arms. A hand caught my neck, steadying me, warm and firm. My breath hitched, and I looked up. His face stopped my heart—sharp jaw, piercing blue eyes, dark hair falling just right. He was gorgeous, like some angel carved from marble, glowing even in this filthy place. His gaze locked on the drunks, fierce and unyielding.

“She’s with me,” he growled, voice low but deadly. They muttered curses, backing off fast, disappearing into the crowd.

He turned those eyes on me, softening just a fraction. “You okay?”

I nodded, still reeling, my neck tingling where his hand rested. Who was he?