He's quiet.
I feel his gaze on my back, heavy and assessing.
I've learned to shrink my life down to the size of this apartment, to make myself so small there's nothing left for him to punish.
It's never enough.
"I saw the way you looked at Stark last weekend," Cain says, and my blood turns to ice. "At the party. You think I didn't notice?"
"Cain, I?—"
"Don't fuckin’ lie to me." His chair scrapes against the floor as he stands. I hear him move closer, feel the heat of him at my back, and every muscle in my body goes rigid. "You were smiling at him. Laughing at his jokes like some kind of whore."
"I was just being polite." My voice comes out thin. Pathetic. "He was talking to me. I didn't mean?—"
"You didn't meanwhat?" His hand closes around my hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh, squeezing hard enough to bruise. "You didn't mean to flirt with another man right in front of me?"
He spins me around.
Suddenly I'm face to face with him, his eyes blazing, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin.
The chicken sizzles behind me, forgotten.
"Who else would want you?" he asks, his voice almost gentle now. That's worse. The gentleness is always worse. "Look at yourself, Ripley."
His hand moves to my stomach, grabbing a handful of flesh through the fabric of my dress.
I suck in a breath, shame flooding through me.
"You think Stark wants this?" He squeezes, and tears prick at my eyes. "You think any man is looking at you and thinking, yeah, I want that fat bitch? You're lucky I keep you around."
"I know," I whisper. "I'm sorry?—"
"You'd benothingwithout me. Remember that."
I nod, because that's what he wants.
Because agreeing is the fastest way to make this stop.
My mother raised me to be strong, to never take shit from any man.
But my mother doesn't know what happens behind this door. No one does.
Cain's grip loosens.
He steps back, reaches for his beer, and I sag against the counter.
The chicken is burning.
I turn quickly, rescue what I can.
"My mom called," I say without thinking, desperate to change the subject. "She wants to know if we're coming to the Steelers game next month."
"Your mom." He snorts. "That woman is a piece of work."
"She just misses me?—"
"What, you want to go running back to mommy? Tell her all about your problems?" He drops into his chair again. "Because we both know how that would go. You'd open your mouth and nothing would come out, because you know this is the best you're ever going to get." He takes a long drink. "Your own father doesn't want you. Why do you think he's never around? Sends a check and disappears for months. That's how much you matter to him."
