Suddenly, his hand is on my chin, forcing my face up. Not hard. Not yet. Just enough to remind me.
“Don’t,” he says quietly.
Quiet Marco makes my stomach drop. Quiet Marco is thinking Marco, and thinking Marco always hurts more.
“I wasn’t…” I start instinctively, stupidly, because part of me still believes an explanation might save me.
His fingers tighten, pain flaring bright and fast, and my words die in my throat.
“You don’t get to talk right now.”
My body reacts before my mind does, breath catching, shoulders pulling inward, because this is familiar, because I’ve learned the shape of this moment too well.
He shoves me away like he’s bored with the contact. I stumble back but catch myself, refusing to rub my chin, refusing to show him anything he might interpret as weakness.
Marco turns away again and slams both hands onto the kitchen island, hard enough to make the bowl of lemons jump, and the sound makes my heart lurch even though I tell myself it’s just noise, just sound, nothing breaking yet.
“They disrespected me.”
I don’t ask who. I never do. “They” is whoever he needs it to be, and my job is not to make it worse.
“They laughed,” he says, spinning toward me, eyes bright and unfocused. “Like I’m a joke.”
My throat tightens. I keep my voice soft, careful, the way you talk to an animal that might bolt.
“No,” I say. “You’re not.”
He stares at me, and I can feel the moment stretching, my thoughts piling over each other in a rush.Say the rightthing, don’t say too much, don’t contradict him, don’t agree too eagerly, either.
My stomach twists again, sharp and anxious… and I swallow hard, forcing it down because now is not the time for my body to do anything noticeable.
Marco’s gaze flicks back to the mug. Then my stomach. Then my purse.
And dread coils tighter in my chest, because he always notices, even when he’s high. Especially when he’s high, because control is the one thing he never loses track of.
“You’ve been sick.” It isn’t a question.
“No,” I say immediately, too fast.
He smiles. That smile… the one that means he’s found something.
“Oh,” he says softly. “Oh, I get it.”
My skin prickles. “Marco,” I say, because saying his name feels like the only tool I have left, even though it has never worked.
He’s on me again, grabbing my wrist, fingers digging into the tender place where the bruise from last time is just starting to fade. Pain flashes hot and sharp, making my vision blur at the edges.
“You think you’re smart?” he hisses. “You think you’re going to trap me?”
I suck in air, shallow and fast. “Let go,” I whisper.
His grip tightens. “You’re pregnant,” he says suddenly, accusingly, like the word itself is proof of something awful. He doesn’t know anything. He just needs something to blame.
The room tilts.
Pregnant.
My heart stutters, then slams hard, and panic surges so fast that it feels like it might choke me. The word hits me like anaccusation, not a truth. Like something he needs to believe so he can turn it into a weapon.
