Page 16 of Toxic

Maybe the years spent suffering at Vic’s hands have finally made me crack. The girl I used to be would have never let a man like Gracin get past her defenses. She would never have even considered breaking the rules, let alone the law.Then again, she probably never would have thought she’d let her husband use her as a punching bag,either.

A voice that sounds a lot like Gracin himself whispers inmyhead.

What else canyoudo?

How far wouldyougo?

How is it possible that one man, someone who is supposed to uphold the law, can tear me down, and another, who is supposed to be the scum of the earth, can buildmeup?

I take a tentative step inside the house I’ve spent the last few years hiding in. A house that has only managed to spawn terror and nightmares, and for the first time, I’m not afraid. In fact, it’s my lack of fear thatterrifiesme.

It’s a state of being that makes me feel like I can doanything.

Which is no doubt what Gracin hadintended.

I glance around the living room on my way to the kitchen, noting the briefcase by the recliner and the snifter of brandy on the side table. Vic is home. Anticipation fills me, dark and potent. A twin of the desire that inspired me to draw Gracin’s head down and extend the kiss that was mydownfall.

He must be in the bedroom, and the thought of him and a bed fills my mouth with bile. And I know without a shred of doubt that I’ll never share a bed with him again. I’ll never let him touch me. Never let himhurtme.

I’dratherdie.

I open the fridge, more from habit than anything else, and retrieve the pork chops I’d set out this morning for dinner. The mundane task of preparing dinner will soothe the wildness that’s brewing inside me. It’ll keep me from making any rash decisions. Well, provided that Vic doesn’t do anythingstupid.

I pull out carrots and potatoes and set them on the kitchen island. I get the ingredients to bread the pork chops and set grease to heat in a fryer on the stove. The bed creaks in the bedroom and an overwhelming sense of expectation unfurls in my stomach. His footsteps cause the wood in the hall to groan and my breath tocatch.

“Where have you been?” he asks with deceptivenonchalance.

Which is how all of his “discussions” begin. He finds an excuse, any excuse, to nitpick. Then he rants and raves. Then he getsphysical.

It’s a cycle. One I’ve read about in books and seen in movies too many times to count. I just didn’t realize I was in one until it happened. Again andagain.

I’ve hadenough.

Afraid of the uncharacteristic rage I feel coursing through me, I rinse the vegetables with extra care. A white fog begins encroaching on my vision, and after I set the carrots and potatoes on the counter, I rub my eyes, thinking maybe I’movertired.

Vic makes a frustrated sound. “I’m talking to you,” he says in a voice that used to make me shiver and cower in fear. Now it just makes meweary.

Why have I let him hurt me forsolong?

Why did it take me so long toseeit?

I don’t answer Vic as I select a knife from the butcher block and begin dicing the carrots into thin slivers. As I do, I imagine that I’m cutting into the restraints he has around me. The ones that have been suffocating me for so fucking long, their weight is like a second skin.It doesn’t take long for those restraints to morph into a vision of the man himself, and I squeeze my eyes shut to dispel theimage.

I chop the carrots more violently. Vic must sense my mood and, in a smart move on his part, doesn’t say anything until I set the knife down on the counter and exchange it for a peeler. I skin the potatoes without ever looking up fromthetask.

I think I’mafraidto.

I’m afraid that when I do, everything will change. That the fundamental parts of me have been irrevocablyaltered.

“Are you going to answer me?” he asks, and his voice tilts up at the end, as if he can’t quite believe I have the nerve to defy him.His dutiful little wife from this morning is gone, and he doesn’t know how tohandleit.

It must be seriously disconcerting to him. Yet, the power that floods me isimmeasurable.

“No,” I say as I put a pot of water on to boil for thepotatoes.

“No?” he asks, his voiceunnaturallyhigh.

I prepare another pot with a small bath of water for the carrots and spare him a quick look before preheating the oven. “No, I’m not going to answer your question. You know good and well whereIwas.”