Nathan narrowed his eyes at me, looking irritated but not like he was getting the point. Nathan with his blue eyes, his expensive suit, his looks and family name was not entirely used to people saying he couldn’t have something.

Which was why he was here. Not because he really loved me or wanted to spend his life with me. Because I was suddenly more desirable to him now that I’d told him he couldn’t have me.

Men.

I sighed, turning to the cabinet behind me to retrieve a glass to fill with large amounts of wine.

“This is not acceptable, Nathan,” I said to the wine cabinet. “You can’t come into my home. You cannot keep calling me. I’ve made my decision. We both need to move on with our lives.”

I retrieved my glass, placing it on the counter. But before I could close the cabinet, hands settled on my upper arms, whirling me around.

My body let itself be whirled around because I was frozen in shock. I hadn’t heard Nathan round the island—on account of the Italian loafers he wore—and I certainly hadn’t been expecting him to grab me.

The grip itself was much too tight. Much tighter than I’d thought his soft, manicured hands were capable of. Something I’d lamented over when it came to our sex life but something that currently alarmed me, given the situation.

Given that we were alone in my home, my closest neighbor a seventy-year-old woman who was three miles away.

Nathan’s eyes were blazing with anger now. “I’m not moving on with my life,” he snapped. “I made a decision to make a life with you.” His grip on my arms tightened. To the point of pain.

Fear sparked in my belly.

Nathan was not an overly large man. He was lean, with more of a swimmer’s body, but he was tall. Much taller than me. And definitely able to overpower me, manhandle me as he was right now.

I was a woman living alone. I was a curvy yet petite woman who did not have any fighting skills to speak of. At that moment, I realized I should’ve prioritized training to fight back. Defend myself. So I would not feel so helpless when a man had his hands on me.

But I was lucky enough to have never been in a situation where a man had put his hands on me, so I hadn’t thought I’d need to learn such things. I thought—stupidly—that the universe had fucked with me enough and wouldn’t add being physically hurt by a man to the list of my traumas.

“You need to get your hands off me right now, Nathan,” I told him, willing myself to meet his eyes, to not let my voice shake. “And then you need to get out of my house.”

I was proud of the steel in my voice.

The steel that had absolutely no effect on Nathan, apparently.

“No,” he gritted out. “I’m not leaving until we sort this out. Until you’re mine again.”