“No,” I say, too quickly, and I hate myself for it because it sounds like fear.
He yanks me to my feet, and my shoulder slams into the coffee table, pain blooming bright and vicious. I bite down hard on the sound that wants to escape. Sounds escalate things.
“There she is,” he sneers. “The little victim act.”
I stand there breathing too fast, wrist throbbing, shoulder screaming, my entire body buzzing with the effort of staying upright, of staying calm, of not doing anything that might push him further.
I look at his pupils again. Still blown. Still black. He isn’t coming down. Which means this won’t burn out on its own.
And then the question arrives, settling into my chest like something locking into place. What if this is the night it goes too far? The night it doesn’t stop where it usually does? The night I don’t get to pretend anymore?
“You don’t get to make a fool of me,” Marco says, close enough that I can smell the chemicals on his breath.
I don’t answer right away. My thoughts are a mess. Fear, guilt, reflexive apologies all fighting for space. But underneath it is something else, something quiet and exhausted and done.
I think about the first time he touched me gently.
I think about how long ago that was.
I think about how many times I convinced myself that if I stayed smaller, quieter, better, he’d calm down.
And something inside me goes still.
“I don’t want to make a fool of you.”
The words land wrong.
I hear it the second they leave my mouth, feel the way his attention sharpens instead of softening, like I’ve just handedhim something he didn’t know he wanted. Marco’s head tilts slightly. A predator’s curiosity.
“Then what do you want?”
His hand is still locked around my wrist. I can feel my pulse hammering against his fingers, frantic and undeniable. He notices it, too. His thumb presses harder, right into the soft place where nerves flare.
“You’re shaking,” he says, almost pleased. “Why are you shaking if you didn’t do anything?”
“I’m not…” I start, then stop myself. Correction makes it worse. Always does.
My stomach lurches again, sharp enough that I have to grit my teeth. I taste bile. My vision swims, just a little.
He feels it. Marco’s gaze drops to my face, then to my midsection again, like he’s piecing together a puzzle that offends him.
“You think I don’t see it?” he snaps. “You think I don’t know when something’s off in my own house?”
His hand releases my wrist, only to shove me backward, hard. My heels hit the rug unevenly, and I stumble, catching myself on the arm of the couch. The jolt sends another wave of dizziness through me. I breathe through it as best I can.
“I said, let it go,” he says, voice rising now, anger spilling loose. “You don’t get secrets. Not from me.”
“I don’t have secrets,” I say, because denial is muscle memory, because admitting anything feels like handing him a weapon.
He laughs again, louder this time, sharp enough to make my ears ring. “Bullshit.”
He grabs the mug off the coffee table and hurls it into the sink. Porcelain shatters, fragments skittering across stainless steel. The sound cracks through the apartment.
I flinch, despite myself. There it is.
Marco’s eyes light up. “There,” he says. “That. That’s what I’m talking about.”
Before I can move, he’s closing the distance again. His hand slams into my shoulder, not a strike exactly, but enough to send me stumbling sideways. My hip hits the edge of the island. Pain flares white hot, stealing my breath. I gasp before I can stop it. His hand comes up fast, fingers hooking into my hair near my scalp, yanking my head back just enough to force my face up toward his.
