“That’s too bad.” He pulls the chair out at the small table. “Come here.”

I look away from him, rubbing my face with one hand. “I didn’t do it. I swear, Santiago.”

“But you lie. Come here. Now.”

“Will you listen to me if I do?”

“Did I give you the impression we were negotiating?”

“No, I know you don’t negotiate.”

“You’re smarter than I thought, then.” He lifts the chair and slams it down. “Don’t make me come get you.”

I push the blanket back and get up, taking a moment to steady myself when a dizzy spell comes.

“Don’t bother with the acting. It won’t win any points from me.”

“I’m not acting, you jerk!” I tell him once the spell passes, and I walk over and take the seat, being careful not to touch him. I don’t even care that I’m naked. He’s seen all of me. And in this light, I’m sure I’m not much more than a shadow anyway. A ghost already.

“Now pick up your knife and fork and start. I have more important things to do than babysit my wife.”

“Why do you care if I eat if you hate me so much?” I ask as I pick up the fork and poke at the meat. It’s underdone. Bloody. I’m sure just like he likes it.

“Oh, I don’t,” he says so casually I have to look up at him. He meets my eyes, the flickering candles casting shadows on his skull face tattoo. “I care that the babies you carry won’t be malnourished.”

“Babies again.” I stab a piece of broccoli.

He leans down close to my ear, pushing my hair over my shoulder. “Why do you think I haven’t killed you yet?” he asks in a whisper, sliding his hand down, pushing the rosary out of the way and cupping my breast.

I shudder.

He straightens, dragging his fingernails along my breast before releasing it. I wonder if he realizes all that does is serve to arouse me. Because somehow, even now, I’m still aroused by him.

“Eat,” he says, taking my jaw in his hand and turning my face to his. “Unless you want me to force-feed you.”

I tug my face away and start to eat, knowing there’s no way I’ll be able to finish the entire meal. I’m already having a hard time getting just the first few bites past my throat.

He takes my hair in his hands, feels the texture. The knots. He brings it to his nose.

“When was the last time you washed your hair?”

I shrug a shoulder.

He twists my hair around his fist and tugs my head painfully backward. “Words.”