The door.
The floor.
I’m shoved forward and hit the ground hard enough that it knocks the breath out of me, my hands scraping against the wood as I try to push up his hand hits my face.
The impact snaps my head to the side and I taste blood immediately, sharp and metallic as it fills my mouth.
“I was making you food.”
His voice is tight.
Not calm.
I blink, trying to get my bearings, my tongue pressing against my lip where it’s already swelling, and then his hand is back on me.
Gentle.
Too gentle.
His fingers slide under my chin and lift my face, forcing me to look at him.
“There you go,” he says softly. “You look pretty like that.”
My stomach turns.
I’m on my knees. On the floor.
His thumb brushes across my cheek like nothing just happened.
“You did this for him, didn’t you?”
The words don’t land straight away. Then they do and something cold settles in my chest. He’s seen something. More than he should have.
“How—” I start.
He smiles.
Like he’s pleased.
“This is our home now,” he says instead, like that’s the part that matters. “I made sure of it.”
My breathing is uneven.
“I’ve got everything set up,” he continues. “We don’t have to leave. We don’t need anyone else.”
My chest tightens.
“You can be better here,” he says. “I can help you.”
His thumb moves across my cheek again.
“Let’s show them,” he adds.
The shift is instant.
His phone is in his hand. Pointed at me.
Recording.
