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“What?!” I shriek.
“Don’t raise your voice,” he snaps, his anger rising to the surface again.
“What do you meanI pushed you?”
“You contradicted my orders,” he states matter-of-factly. “When I explain to you how I want something done, I expect you to do it without question. Now, are we going to have any more problems?”
Yes! One thousand percent yes.
“No,” I answer hastily.
“Good. I’m going to leave so you can get your rest for your big day of shopping tomorrow. But before I go, let me get you an ice pack for your back.”
Why the heck does he care all of a sudden?
“We don’t want you to bruise too badly,” he says, almost as if he read my thoughts. “Your skin is so fine that it’s going to bruise no matter what, but ice will help lessen it.”
Brad moves to the refrigerator, pulls out a tray of ice, and dumps it into a baggie. When he returns to my side, he leads me to the couch, and he applies it to my aching back.
The ice helps to numb the pain, but I refuse to admit that out loud. He leaves me leaning against the ice, and moments later I hear him rummaging in my bathroom. Brad reappears and hands me two pain relievers and a glass of water.
I swallow both dutifully and silently wish for him to leave.
“I’m going to go now.”
“Okay.”
“Remember what I said about the dress.”
I nod but say nothing. The sooner he leaves, the better. Before I can react, his mouth crashes down on mine in a punishing manner. He keeps me pinned against the couch, both of his arms caging me in, so I have no means of escape. I kiss him back with less enthusiasm, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
After a few agonizing moments, Brad pushes away from me and grins.
“You’re gonna be so lovely on your knees.”
What the heck does he mean by that?
It doesn’t matter because I plan on calling my parents as soon as he’s out of the parking lot. They won’t allow this to happen. They won't allow this to happen now that Brad's continuing and escalating in his abuse.
“Oh, and Violet?” he says with his hand on the doorknob.
“Yes?”
“Don’t even think about telling your parents what happened,” he says haughtily. “You won’t like the consequences. I’d hate to have to hurtthemto keep you in line. Be a good girl tomorrow.”
* * *
“You’re not rescheduling.”
I rub the back of my neck as I head for the door, my cell tucked against my ear. Calling Brad and asking him to reschedule with his mom was obviously a mistake, but I had to try. The Epsom salt bath I took last night and Tylenol are doing nothing to ease the pain from his rage, and trying on dresses doesn’t sound appealing at all.
“But the brui—”
“You’ll be fine.”
I should’ve called my parents.
After Brad left last night, I sat on my bed and debated about calling them, but ultimately, I chose not to. My fiancé’s threat weighed too heavily on my mind.
