My fingers trembled with rage, so I tightened my hold on my fork. I couldn’t let him see how much this tense power play was riling me. If I looked docile, he would go back to ignoring me. He would stop monitoring my food intake.

“Nora.” My name was a condemnation. “I expect you to eat every bite, or there will be consequences.”

All my muscles tensed, and I spoke before I could lock the words behind smiling lips. “I’m not hungry,” I snapped.

It wasn’t true. My stomach ached with hunger, but the pain of it centered me. It was my choice, my body. This was one of my most familiar and reliable mechanisms for control, and he wanted to rip it away from me.

His movements were deceptively casual as he flipped his newspaper closed and folded it, rolling it up into a tight tube in his fist. His knuckles stood out sharply, the veins on the back of his hand visible. So much power in that single fist, a clear threat despite his calm demeanor.

Gracefully, he got to his feet and strolled around the dining table, keeping me fixed in his incisive emerald stare. My soft smile melted away, but I managed to maintain my stiff posture in my seat.

He stopped when he edged into my personal space, looming over me. His head cocked to the side, a single dark brow raised. “I’ll give you one chance to be honest with me.” His voice was impossibly deep and forbidding. I suppressed a shiver. “Are you not eating because you’re anxious this morning, or is this something you always do?”

My stomach flipped. He knew.

How could he know? No one had ever noticed before, not even Giana.

I swallowed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He clicked his tongue at me. “Wrong answer, little bird.”

He lashed out, and I tried to dodge the worst of the blow to my face. But it didn’t come. Instead of slapping me, his fingers twined in my hair, sinking deep into the heavy locks. He pulled, lighting up my scalp with sparks that edged toward pain. I had no choice but to move where he guided me, forced to shift off my chair and bend over the table beside my full plate.

I thrashed, but his big hand bracketed the back of my skull, pressing my cheek hard against the polished mahogany dining table. Before I could gasp out a protest, he flipped up the hem of my short black lace robe. He’d only given me a scrap of fabric for matching underwear, and cool air kissed my bare skin.