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I plate the steak and cut into it, juices running red. I tear into a piece, leaning back against the counter. She’s still holding the peas to her cheek.

Then, without warning, she grabs the button of her jeans and shoves them down past her hips. My fork clinks against the plate.

The words stamped above her thigh catch the light.

Property of Eli.

A tattoo. Black ink, clean lines, right above her hip bone. My jaw locks.

That bastard. He actually branded her. Not metaphorically. Not possessively. Inked his name into her like she is something to own.

I swallow, and for a second, my grip on the fork tightens.Why the hell didn’t I think of that?

“What the fuck is that?” I ask, voice low.

“You said I was stupid for going to that party.” She yanks her jeans back up and zips them. “Maybe you’re right.”

I toss the plate in the sink without finishing the rest.

I cross the space between us, fast, and she steps back.

“Let me see your cheek.”

“I’m fine.”

I reach anyway, fingers catching her jaw. She tries to slap my hand away, but I hold her firm, tilting her face to the side. The bruise is already blooming, purple and ugly.

“I said I’m fine,” she spits.

“Stop squirming.”

“You hit me.”

“And you lied. Snooped. Filmed. You’re lucky it was just a slap.”

She glares at me. Her mouth’s tight. But she doesn’t pull away again.

I let her go and wipe my hands on a towel.

“For someone who claims to hate me and Eli, you sure spend a lot of time around us.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she snaps.

“No need. You’re here. That’s proof enough. Now are you staying for dinner?”

She storms off down the hall, probably looking for a place to lock herself in. Too bad. I’m done playing their games. If they’re going to keep acting like children, I’ll treat them like it.

I head down the other hall, grab both their phones from the car and toss them in the guest bedroom drawer. I pull the landline cord out of the wall too. No contact with the outside world for the night.

Later, after I’ve cleaned the pan and washed the blood off my knuckles, I turn on the TV and drop into the leather armchair.

My intention is to find some hockey highlights I can watch as I eat my dinner, but the universe has other plans because as I scroll through the channels, I land on something explicit. Loud moans and fake gasps fill the room. Cheap hotel sheets. A girl bent over the edge of a bed. I let it play.

I tug my sweatpants down just enough and start stroking myself slowly. I’m not even watching the screen. It’s the image of her. That damn tattoo. The way she looked when she shoved her jeans down. Like she wanted me to see it. Like she wanted a reaction.

She got one.

The room smells like wood and spice and sweat. I sink deeper into the chair, wrist moving slower now, tension winding in my gut.