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“What do you mean NO?” he asks coldly, his fingers tightening, his expression going scary.

I try to pull out of his hold.

But the move is far too late.

He’s holding me. He’s holding me far too tightly.

“Let me go,” I whisper.

He doesn’t. Instead, he grips tighter, pulls me closer, tone deadly when he says, “What the fuck do you mean NO?”

“Dylan,” I begin, my hands covering his, trying to peel them free.

“I asked you a question, Willow.”

I scramble, desperately trying to come up with something that will defuse this, something that will get this insane thought out of his head.

“I…well, we were talking about doing that film. It would be really hard to do pregnant or with a newborn or?—”

“I’ll adjust the schedule or we can get creative with shots and hiring help.”

“I—”

“It’s not up for discussion, Willow. You’re having my baby.”

I blink once. Then again. Then the only thing I can say is…

“No.”

His fingers tighten. “No?”

I shake my head. “No, Dylan. I can’t— I can’t have a baby with you.”

I haven’t stood up to him in so long that the shock rippling across his face is abundant and it loosens his grip on me.

I jerk away from him, spinning on my heels, running for the hall.

I have nowhere to go, no one to trust, but I just know that I can’t stay here.

Only I don’t make it more than a couple of steps before a hand is wrapping around my arm, yanking me back.

He spins me around, his angry face in mine. “You fucking bitch.” He shoves me and I stagger back a step. “You will do”—another shove and I teeter on the heels I haven’t taken off yet, struggling to stay upright—“whatever the fuck—“another and I nearly go down, nails scrabbling at the edge of the counter to keep my feet—“I tell you to do!”

The last is a roar and accompanied by a push so hard that I don’t have a hope in hell of staying on my feet.

I tumble backward.

It happens in slow motion.

I fall.

Not toward the floor.

But, off-balance, I topple toward the island…

Toward the sharp edge of the countertop.

I gasp, try to get my hand up.