Page 65 of The Butcher's Wife

He continues. “So, you and I, we’re gonna take it day-by-day. I like your cooking, but if you hate it, we can order takeout. I’m not firing the house cleaner—she’s been loyal for years—but you can clean if you want to. You can get a job too, if you want to.” He taps his pen against the aquarium stand. “It goes without saying that you shouldn’t leave the house unless you’re with me or we get all this mess sorted out. In the meantime, you have my card. Buy or do whatever you want.”

The longer he talks, the more I burn with wild panic, like a massive, swelteringly hot spotlight has just swiveled in my direction, and I never learned the show’s routine.

What I want to do?

When has that ever been an option?

The panic refracts, focuses like a beam of light, toanger. “Whatever I want?”

Dom grins. He knows a trap when he sees one.

“Will you teach me how to fight?”

“I never said I wouldn’t.”

I scoff. “You said I’d only fight aflea.”

He barks out a laugh, and despite myself—even if I’m still holding onto my anger—I smile too, a little bit.

“I’ll teach you to fight,reginetta. Is that what you want?”

And just like that, the anger dissolves, leaving behindelectric anticipation in its place. Every time I expect him to go left, he goes right. I think he’ll be cruel in bed, but he’s tender and generous. I’m scared he’ll throw me to the wolves after I lie to him, but he comforts and holds me through the night.

I take my time to answer him, inching forward as his gaze touches all over me, to set my mug on the coffee table with a clink.

I brace my elbows on my knees. “Are you going to treat it seriously?”

A hungry look passes over his features. He leans toward me, on one knee, like he could lunge at me at any moment. My stomach flips.

“Dead serious.”

“Alright.” I rise from the sofa. I can almost feel the current of tension between us, dragging us toward each other. “Then teach me how to escape.”

He laughs, but his fingers give him away, tightening over the ledge of the aquarium stand. His thigh muscles flex. “Right now?”

I shrug, although I’m anything but casual. I roll back and forth on the balls of my feet. “Why not? I should always be ready to run, right? You can… critique my evasion techniques.”

“That what you want?” he asks in delighted disbelief. He pulls off his glasses and folds them.

My heart beats a hundred times over. “Count to five and find out.”

I turn and vault over the sofa, racing to the stairs.

His voice rumbles behind me like a distant roll of thunder.

“One…”

16

ANNETTA

I’m halfwayup the stairs by the time he gets to three. When I leap onto the top step, my chest heaving and calves burning, he’s reached five.

I peek down the stairs, and he rises from the floor with a smug grin, taking measured steps toward me.

He thinks he can do this without working up a sweat? I turn tail and race across the hallway, catching a glimpse of him at the end of the hallway before I fly down the second set of stairs. I’m going to hide in the kitchen—the island will give me space in case I need to dodge him.

Behind me, his steps thunder down the stairs, giving me enough time to dash into the kitchen. I tuck myself behind the island, peering into the reflection of the oven door for his head.