“You took care of me?” I echo. My hands curl into fists at my sides. “Is that what you call letting a man waltz into our house and—” My voice cracks, sharp and jagged, but I push through it. “That was you taking care of me?”
Mark shakes his head, like I’m just too stupid to understand.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he sighs. “Duvall was supposed to leave, and everything would’ve gone back to normal afterward.”
Normal.
He actually fucking says it.
Like I was supposed to just… shrug it off? Take a shower, do some yoga, maybe bake a pie, and then slide right back into his bed like a loyal, trauma-ignoring wife?
I take a step closer, my chest brushing his. I tilt my chin up, forcing him to meet my eyes.
“You made some fucked deal with him, huh?” My voice is even, somehow, despite the absolute raging inferno I’m currently suppressing. “You promised him you’d let him fuck me for something? Be a man for once and at least admit it.”
Mark doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t have to.
The truth is there, written all over his face.
I wasn’t supposed to fight. I wasn’t supposed to win. I was supposed to be the sacrificial lamb, get ruined, and let Mark be the one to fix me.
But now that I did fight back—now that I did win—it’s a problem.
Mark’s hand twitches at his side. His fingers flex, like he’s debating whether to reach for something. I don’t know what. At first.
Then I see it.
The shift in his jaw, his teeth grinding together like he’s chewing through every last ounce of self-restraint.
My Mark. My composed, silver-tongued, gaslight-gatekeep-husband-boss is gone.
This man standing in front of me isn’t the Mark I once knew—not the smooth talker, not the patient manipulator.
This is the real Mark. The one who doesn’t bother with words anymore. The one who’s out of excuses, out of lies, and apparently, out of any semblance of human decency.
And I see it, plain as day.
He’s going to kill me.
His posture shifts—just a little, just enough. The kind of movement a predator makes right before it pounces. I don’t think.
I move.
I take a fast step back. But the second I do, Mark lunges.
His hand slams into my throat before I can take another breath. The impact knocks me back, my feet slipping on the blood-slicked floor, but Mark doesn’t let me fall.
No, that would be too easy.
His grip tightens like a damn vice, fingers digging into my windpipe with the kind of dedication that says he’s hated me for a long time already. He shoves me against the counter, the edge biting into my lower back.
I try to scream. Nothing comes out.
I claw at his wrist, but he doesn’t even flinch.
His face is inches from mine, his breath hot against my cheek. He isn’t yelling. He isn’t cursing. His voice, when he finally speaks, is low.
