He rubbed the stubble that shadowed his jaw, as if contemplating, and rose from his chair. He rounded the table, furious green eyes narrowed, and I grabbed my seat to keep from bolting. Oh God. I’d never been more sorry about losing my temper. He settled next to me, and I couldn’t comprehend what happened next. One second I was sitting upright, and the next he’d pulled me over his lap.

His palm came down fast and hard, but I didn’t make a sound, didn’t even fight him. I was too shocked, too aware of him underneath me as his thighs burned into my abdomen. His hand stalled on my ass, lightly massaging, then he continued spanking me, each smack landing with more intensity than the last. He set me upright again, and only then did I register the deep sting in my bottom. He reclaimed the seat across from me, and I opened my mouth but nothing came out.

All I could do was stare. There were no words, no fits or hysterics, just pure stunned silence on my part.

“If you think a tantrum will get you out of eating, you’re sorely mistaken.” He pointed at my breakfast on the floor. “Get down there and eat it.”

“I’m not a fucking dog.”

He jumped from his chair so fast, I didn’t have a chance to bolt. His fingers pressed into my jaw. “Last chance before I use that on you.” He forced my gaze to the thick paddle hanging on the wall by the door. “And trust me, that sucker is unbearable, so unless you want to experience it firsthand, get your ass on the floor and eat your breakfast. I won’t tolerate you starving yourself. Not under my roof.”

Warmth flooded my face as I slid from the chair to my knees, and as I used my hands to shovel in mouthfuls of eggs, the same old shame surfaced. It was never far, always hidden beneath layers of forged normalcy. “I haven’t had a problem with that in six months,” I said, despising the weak quality of my voice. The eggs didn’t want to go down, and I almost gagged. The potatoes weren’t much better.

“Good, and we’re going to keep it that way.”

“How did you know?” I asked. He’d just been released from prison, so how had he found out about my problem with anorexia?

“I know everything about you.”

Our eyes connected and held, and I searched for the truth, because surely he didn’t mean everything. Seconds ticked past, each one whittling away my thin grasp on sanity. I held my breath, horrified by the possibility that he knew.

He broke our stare, his expression unchanged, and I exhaled in relief. Silence ensued, interrupted by the scrape of his fork against china, but it wasn’t the uncomfortable kind of disquiet that made every second feel like an eternity. My mind was numb. I hadn’t processed, and I wasn’t ready to do so.

“Why did you starve yourself?” he asked, jerking me to awareness.