Kill Switch by Penelope Douglas

“You gave your dog a Russian name,” Damon mused.
“I gave him a dancer’s name.”
Mikhail Baryshnikov. I couldn’t help the fact that most of
the revered ballet dancers were Russian. It had nothing to do
with it being a fucking nod to Damon’s heritage.
Just about to turn around and take my dog, I sensed him
rise from his chair as the last of the cigarette smoke dissipated
into the air. Keeping my dog close to me, I stepped back to the
table against the wall and swiped the pen I knew sat there with
a pad of paper for messages. I kept it in my hand, hidden
behind my thigh.
There was a time when he scared me, and I liked it. I
didn’t like it anymore.
“I don’t want to be here,” I told him. “I’ll find a way out.
You know that.”
I faltered for a moment, realizing this was the first time
Damon and I had had any semblance of a conversation—albeit
reluctant—since he went to prison five years ago. Any other
interactions we’ve had have either been brief attacks or bitter
threats in passing.
“You have nothing to say?” I prodded.
“No, I just don’t feel a need to respond.” His voice grew
closer, and he took a drink of something, the ice in his glass
clinking before he set it down on a table. “You can say and
make whatever declarations you like, Winter, but ultimately
you’ll do what you’re told. You, your mother, and your sister,”
he pointed out. “You don’t run this house anymore.”
“I’m an adult. I can go where I like and leave when I
wish.”
“Then why are you still here?”
My lip twitched in a snarl, but I hid it quickly. His
meaning was clear. Yeah, I could’ve tried to leave the other
night. If I were willing to see my friend get arrested for
something he didn’t do. He and his father had advanced on