I didn't expect him to come home that night. Not after the way he'd walked out, like I was filth on his shoe. But sometime past midnight, the sound of the front door unlocking echoed through the silence, sharp and final.
I didn't move. I was curled up on the edge of the bed, the thin blanket doing little to warm me. My body still ached from the slap earlier, the sting of it buried deep in my cheekbone. But the real bruise was lower—somewhere between my ribs and my heart.
His footsteps didn't hurry. He took his time climbing the stairs. I could hear the ice in his glass clinking. Whiskey. Always whiskey.
The door opened. Slowly. Deliberately.
He stood there, tall and composed, dark eyes sweeping the room like he owned every breath in it. He probably did.
I sat up. I didn't say a word. Neither did he.
He walked in and shut the door behind him.
"You didn't eat."
His voice wasn't a question. It was an accusation.
I clenched the sheet between my fingers. "I wasn't hungry."
Wrong answer.
Before I could blink, he crossed the room, yanked the sheet from my grip, and grabbed my chin in one harsh motion.
"You're mine now. That means you eat when I say. You sleep when I say. You breathe when I allow it. Do you understand?"
My throat dried. I nodded slowly.
He let go, and I fell back onto the bed like a discarded doll.
He walked toward the dresser and poured himself another drink, as if nothing had happened.
"You'll start lessons tomorrow," he said coolly. "Etiquette. Languages. Business. I want you trained."
My heart skipped. "Why?"
He turned, swirling the glass in his hand. "Because I won't have a wife who looks like a stray and speaks like a fool. And because when I destroy your father, you'll be the pretty, broken thing standing beside me."
I swallowed the bile rising in my throat.
"Cassia said you don't even want me."
A shadow flickered across his eyes. "Cassia talks too much."
"She said you sleep with her."
He took a long sip, then walked toward me, placing the empty glass on the nightstand.
He leaned down, his breath brushing my cheek. "And you think you're in a position to question me?"
I shrank back. "No."
"Good."
He stood and walked to the door.
Before he left, he turned to look at me once more.
"You're not here to be loved, Amara. You're here to be used. The sooner you accept that, the less it'll hurt."
The door shut with a soft click.
And I broke.
But only for a moment.
Because even bruises bloom.
And one day, I'd use every scar he gave me to cut him where it hurt.