Martin's brows drew together; his jaw clenched. Irritation flickered in his eyes, but he swallowed it back.
"You cry over the smallest things," he murmured, cupping her face, his thumb brushing her cheek. "Want me to make you feel better?"
She knew what he meant.
"I'm tired of doing that with you," she said sharply.
She turned to leave, but his grip clamped around her arm, yanking her back. She stumbled into him, his hold tightening like shackles.
In the next breath, she was on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath her weight. His cigar hit the floor. She pushed herself up, but he was already over her.
Her hands caught his as they tugged at her clothes. "I can't do this, Martin. Not today. Please."
"Why not? I'm your husband," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You must serve me when I want."
He wrenched at the towel, his grip bruising, but she wasn't ready — not in her body, not in her mind. Resistance was pointless, yet the thought of giving in made her skin crawl.
