The shift is instant. The softness in him cracks.
“Stop fighting me.”
The words come out tighter. Controlled. But not gentle anymore. He grabs my arm. Not careful this time. Firm. Pulling.
I twist against him, my body reacting before my thoughts can catch up, adrenaline overriding the weakness just enough to give me something back.
“Let go of me!”
I wrench free and the chain slips loose.
For a split second, neither of us moves.
Then I run.
It’s not graceful. It’s not steady.
My legs don’t fully cooperate, my balance off as I stumble forward, but it’s movement, it’s distance, it’s something.
The kitchen.
I hit the counter, my hands scrambling against the surface as I grab the first thing I can find.
A knife.
It’s in my hand before I fully realise it.
I turn. He’s already coming toward me.
“Liana,” he says, and there’s something different in his voice now. “Put that down.”
“No,” I say, my grip tightening, my arm shaking slightly as I hold it out in front of me. “Don’t come near me.”
He takes another step.
“You’re not thinking clearly.”
“Don’t—”
He moves faster. I don’t think. I swing. The blade catches his arm. Not deep. But enough.
Enough to draw blood, enough to stop him for a second.
His expression changes. The softness disappears.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snaps, his voice sharp now, the control gone. “I’m trying to do this right for you and you attack me?”
Fear spikes through me, sharp and immediate, but I don’t drop the knife.
“Stay away from me!”
He doesn’t listen.
He steps in again and this time he hits me.
The impact knocks the air out of me, my body slamming back against the counter before I can recover, my vision flashing white for a second as pain blooms across my face.
The knife slips from my hand and clatters to the floor.
