And when had it ever? Always his timetable, his agenda. It had been like that with her mom and dad too. Whenever Mitch had shown up, he expected his wife to drop everything, cook whatever he wanted, and spend a few days in the bedroom. Then he left her crying. Never had it mattered what she needed. It was always about his damn prophecies. In the end, they’d both died alone because Mitch hadn’t been able to commit to a woman the way he could to his religion. Though Jenna had been young, she’d registered the damage. Not me. That’s never going to be me. She glared at Mason’s back. He was a damn machine. Accomplishing his objective was the only priority, no matter what the cost—to himself or to those around him. But Mitch had been that way too. His priorities hadn’t included his own flesh and blood. Jenna loathed wanting someone who seemed so much like her old man, making her feel weak and helpless. “Pick up the pace,” he called over his shoulder. Violence spiked through her, riding the tail end of the fight.
