“No,” he says, pushing me to lie down. “Stay.”

“I’m not a dog, you bastard.” I slap his hand away, but he catches my wrists.

“I said stay.” I hear the nightstand drawer open, and he holds up a pair of leather cuffs. “Or I’ll make you stay.”

“You would, wouldn’t you?”

“Your choice, Ivy.” How does he sound so calm when I sound so frantic? So insane?

I look at them, then at him. He means it. So I lie back, and when he is satisfied and releases my wrists, I snatch the duvet and pull it up to my shoulders, then turn my back to him.

I hear the drawer slide closed, and he moves away. When a door opens, I turn my head and watch. Bathroom. A moment later, he comes back toward me, opening a small old-fashioned-looking bottle. Something I’d fill with sand and call fairy dust when I was little.

I sit up, needing to keep alert, to watch him. I hold the blankets tight to me. I’m still naked. Still cold. Still filled with hate for this man. My husband. I feel him between my legs still. How rough he was. How hard I came. How I passed out, my head spinning even in the blackness of that mask. All the sounds, all the people. The sex all around me. My senses heightened when he blinded me.

“I hate you,” I tell him again, this time feeling the heat of tears in my eyes. “I hate you.” I want him to know it. To understand that this hate is something deep inside me, rooted in the ice spreading through my veins even as a little voice inside my head reminds me that for a moment, for one undeniable moment, it wasn’t hate I felt. It was jealousy.

And no, not for a single moment.

“I hate you, Santiago De La Rosa,” I say with more conviction in my voice than I feel deep inside me.

Come has dried on the insides of my thighs.

I’m going to put a baby inside you.

No. No. I cannot allow that. I will not.

“Drink this,” he says, holding out the strange little vial.

I look at it, then at him. I snort-laugh. “Are you insane?” I push his arm away. “You think I’ll just drink your poison?”

“It’s not poison. It will relax you.”

“No, I guess you’re not ready to kill me yet, are you? You’re having too much fun.” I turn my face away. “I don’t want your drugs, Santiago.”

“Drink it.” His voice is tight, and when I don’t reply, he grabs my jaw, fingers digging into my skin as he forces me to look at him.