“No.”

“Disgusted. With your boo-hooing and begging. I almost couldn’t come in your ass, you made me so sick.”

His voice is cold and scornful—arrows shooting through the glass, piercing my heart with his contempt. I need him. I need to be his prima. But in a few sentences, he’s sliced my skin and pulled it aside, leaving me flayed and raw. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t mean it. He may as well, for the damage it’s doing.

My cheeks are wet. That’s when I realize I’m crying. I wipe my nose on my sleeve.

“Jesus Christ. You’re pathetic. Stand up for yourself.”

Maybe he’s playacting at being the worst man to ever speak to a woman. That doesn’t make him wrong. I sniff and stand up straight. I don’t know how much longer I can maintain this.

His jaw juts forward and his hands ball into white-knuckled fists as his chest rises and falls rapidly. This stance isn’t new. This is how he looks when someone hurts me and he wants to kill them.

I clear my throat, then take a deep breath.

That red dot. A single eye makes this anger necessary.

“You…” I tap my finger on the glass. It will look as if I’m pointing at him, but it’s a shape over twelve keys. His number, reversed like a mirror so that he can see it.

“You’re an evil man.” I tap the number again.

He watches it, then me.

“An animal. But you’re my husband, and you showed me the shape of numbers.” Will he get it? “Tell me.” Again, I dial him. I don’t even know if he saw the blood-colored embroidery inside the hem, but he has to get this for when he does. “We’ll find out anyway. But if you tell me, I can petition for mercy.”

His eyes scan what they can see of me in the dim light. The camera’s on the ceiling behind him. They can see my face but not his, so I take my finger from the glass and harden my lips into a line.

“Sit down.” He instructs me calmly—as if it’s a normal day.

“Why?”

“Put your back to the glass. I won’t tell you again.”

When he speaks like this, his skin is clear and his body is powerful with steely bone and rippling muscle. He stands ten feet tall. The missing tops of his ears aren’t a sign of frailty, but a reminder of what he’s survived. This prison would melt away if he’d will it out of existence, but instead he wills my body to turn and sit with my back to the glass.

“Dario.” I sit and start to look over my shoulder, but he stops me.

“Face forward and put your knees up.”

“Why?”

“Because that dress is suffocating your cunt. Pull the skirt up and air it out.” His voice is right behind me, as if he’s sitting too.

He’s blocking the camera with his back.

I pull the skirt over my knees.