He lifts me in his arms before my bare foot even touches the ground. The cloak he wrapped me in almost falls away, but he catches that, too, keeping it huddled around me. And when I try to push away from his hard chest, when I try to free myself of his grip, he only tightens his hold on me.

“Let me go, Santiago.”

“No.”

Marco opens the front door, and Santiago carries me in. I’m still shivering even though it’s warm in the house. The cold I feel is so deep inside me that even a raging fire wouldn’t touch it.

What he did tonight, that display, another very public humiliation and his utter lack of concern for my well-being? I don’t forgive him for that. And I don’t believe he cares about me. No, I’d sooner believe any concern was that maybe he’d gone too far and broken me. Killed me, even. Like he’s threatened to. He doesn’t want me dead yet. He hasn’t had his fill of torturing me just yet.

“Let me go!” I twist in his arms as he carries me past my bedroom and farther down the long corridor. I’m exhausted and weak, but I have to fight.

He doesn’t budge. My struggles don’t seem to impact him at all. He’s stone-faced as we head up into this darker part of the house.

“I hate you,” I hiss. I have to say it because I have to feel it. It’s the only thing I should feel after that.

At that, he glances down at me, but it’s too dark to read his eyes. It’s hard enough when it’s light.

He doesn’t reply, though. No smart comment. No strikes against me like at dinner last night. Just him as he usually is. Cold and impassive. Inhuman.

We stop as he opens the double doors at the end of the corridor, and when we enter the large suite, I instantly know this is his bedroom.

I can’t help but crane my neck to take it in. Black walls, damask paper, dark, heavy velvet curtains the color of the night sky, moonlight pale through the windows. Ironclad again. Like the rest of the house. And at the very center of the room is a high bed bigger than any I’ve ever seen with four hulking posts, a thick duvet, and pillows he scatters carelessly across the floor while still holding me.

“I’m not fucking you,” I tell him when he snatches his cloak away, pulls the blankets on the bed back, and lays me down. I smell him on the pillow. It’s his pillow. “I won’t let you touch me again. Ever! Do you hear me?”

He ignores what I’m saying, but when he lets me go, and I move to sit up, he puts a finger to my chest.