I turn to glare at him. "Earned it? It is a door. A basic component of a room. A fundamental architectural element. You cannot just?—"
"I can," he says mildly, cutting into his own food. "And I did."
"You are a tyrant."
"And you are a brat."
The word lands like a slap, sharp and startling, and I feel my face flush hot with something that is definitely anger and absolutely nothing else.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me." Dante leans back in his chair, watching me with those impossible blue eyes that see way too much. "You have spent the last week throwing tantrums, refusing food, attempting to escape, and generally making everyone's lives more difficult than necessary."
"I am a prisoner," I snap, slamming my fork down harder than intended. "What exactly did you expect?"
"I expected you to be smart enough to realize you are not going anywhere," he says, and his voice is harder now, edged with something dangerous. "I expected you to stop fighting the inevitable and start figuring out how to make the best of your situation."
"The best of my situation?" I laugh, and it sounds slightly unhinged even to my own ears. "I was lied to, manipulated into a marriage I did not choose, and now I am being held captive by three men who think they can just?—"
"You chose this," Dante cuts me off, and his voice is like iron now. "You walked down that aisle. You said the vows. You put on the ring. Nobody forced you."
"I did it for Erin!"
"I know. And that changes nothing about the reality of your situation."
I want to throw my wine in his face. I want to stab him with my fork. I want to scream until my throat bleeds and the entire house hears exactly what I think of this entire situation.
Instead, I very deliberately take another bite of my food and chew slowly, aggressively, while maintaining eye contact likethis is some kind of dominance contest I have any hope of winning.
"Better," Dante says dryly.
"Fuck you."
His eyes flash. "Watch your mouth."
"Or what?" I challenge, because apparently I have a death wish and no sense of self-preservation whatsoever. "You will take away my utensils too? Lock me in the basement? What else could you possibly do to make this worse?"
Dante's jaw tightens, and I see the exact moment his patience snaps like a wire pulled too tight.
He moves fast—one hand fisting in my hair at the base of my skull, the other gripping my arm, and then I am being hauled out of my chair and across his lap before I can even process what is happening.
"What—"
The first smack lands on my ass with enough force to make me yelp, the sound sharp and shocking in the quiet dining room.
"Dante!" I shriek, trying to twist away, but his arm is banded across my lower back like iron, holding me in place, and when the second smack lands in almost the exact same spot I feel it through my entire body.
"I told you," he says, and his voice is infuriatingly calm, almost bored, "to watch your mouth."
SMACK.
"Let me go!"
SMACK.
"Not until you learn some respect."
SMACK.
