“Don’t!” My body vibrated with fury. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a child. You did it for yourself because you wanted me to make the choice that you wanted. You’re dispica—”

The stinging crack across my cheek snapped my head to the side. A pinball of pain ricocheted in my skull. The burning pain spread from my face to my neck and well into my hairline. I knew from experience now would be a good time to shut the hell up.

But it was as if the stronger woman inside me finally refused to be silenced. I gingerly touched my cheek and glowered at him. “I will not shut up. You lied to me. You hid this from me. You made me feel like I wasn’t good enough to make this dream happ—”

The next crack was enough to knock me over, and I tasted blood on the tip of my tongue. Desperate to steady myself, I reached up to the counter for purchase, but only managed to bring the diced chicken, mayonnaise, and chopping board down with me.

Easton kneeled in front of me. His tight face registered a barely concealed mask of rage. This was it; I’d done it now. There would be no concealer good enough to hide the bruises he would give me.

And I didn’t give a good goddamn. I was tired of cowering.

Instead of lying there, I probed for the cutting board to use as a shield. My fingers wrapped around the knife handle instead. Shaking, I gripped it tight.

Over the years, I’d lost count of the number of times he’d hit me.

Once, I’d even tried to run home. My mother had made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that Easton was the kind of man I needed in my life. And I had better learn how to please him because I wasn’t going to do much better than a Peters.

My mother had also pointed out that Easton would be powerful someday and I would benefit from that. She’d called him to pick me up then.

I had learned that day not to go running home with my problems. Once, I considered telling my father. He might have patriarchy infused in his blood, but he would never stand for someone hitting his child.

But even I knew that scenario would end in bloodshed, either with my father dead or in jail for murder. Neither outcome was acceptable, so I kept my mouth shut.

When Easton spoke, his voiced sounded controlled, but I didn’t buy it.

“You know better than to provoke me. I don’t want to hurt you, but Abbie, you cannot speak to me like that. Are we clear?”