I sat up in bed with a book in my hand, and the second the door opened, my eyes flicked up to watch him enter.

With that same constantly pissed-off visage, he approached my bed and dropped his bottoms, his dick hard like he was in the mood before he even looked at me. Tall and muscular, he stood there and stared me down, telling me what to do without moving his lips.

I closed the book and set it on the nightstand. “I want to talk—”

“Don’t care what you want.” He approached the bed. “Turn over.”

My only action should be obedience, but I didn’t want this version of him—even though I deserved it. “Please—”

He grabbed my body and threw me over, forcing me onto my stomach and knees. My nightgown was pushed above my hips, and he yanked my thong down with such force he could have ripped it. He moved me to the edge of the bed, ass in the air, directed his dick to my entrance so he could pound me as harshly as he had last night.

I tried to push up against his hand at my neck, but it was no use. “No.”

Everything stopped.

His hand released my neck, and he pulled his dick away.

I breathed hard against the sheets before I raised myself to look at him.

He was already dressed and headed to the door.

“Wait, no.”

He ignored me and walked out.

“Okay, okay…”

His footsteps halted outside the door before he returned to the doorway, his sweatpants snug because his dick bulged in the material. He stared me down, his dark eyes full of anger. But there was still desire there, subtly masked underneath the stare. He didn’t move toward the bed, as if he expected something from me.

I put my head back down on the sheets, my ass up in the air, and pulled my nightgown to my hips.

He stared for a while before he came back in. He didn’t take off his bottoms this time. He pushed them to his thighs, got me in the same hold as last night, and fucked me harder than he had the night before.

It happened every night for a week.

He fucked me the exact same way. The exact same position. Not saying a word. When I tried to talk to him, he would just leave.

These were his terms—and I didn’t have a choice but to accept them.

I ate lunch by myself in the garden room, my depression increasing in weight the longer my social isolation lasted. Gilbert didn’t speak to me. Just dropped my tray and departed. Fender would only see me under one condition—if he was fucking me.