Chapter 9: Hate

I hit him.

An open hand across the face, hard enough that my palm stung.

Santino's head turned with it and came back slowly.

"Again," he said.

"Don't tell me what to do."

"Then don't stop at one."

I hit him a second time, and a third time my hand did not go anywhere.

He had caught my wrist in his good hand.

"You said no hands," I said, and my voice cracked down the middle.

"You hit me first."

"Let go."

He let go at once.

That was the worst of it.

He opened his fingers and sat there on the cot with his shoulder stitched.

His shirt lay on the floor, and he did not touch me again.

I was shaking.

Two years of Sunday dinners. Two years of a man who watched me cry and did not say a word.

I took his face in both hands and kissed him.

It was not a kind kiss.

I bit his lower lip and he made a rough sound in his chest, and then his good hand was in my hair.

"Gem."

"Shut up."

"Your rule."

"I don't care about my rule."

I pushed him back onto the cot.

He went down with a short hiss as the shoulder hit the blanket, and I stopped.

"I'm fine," he said. "Don't you dare stop."

I pulled my dress over my head and dropped it on the floor.

He looked at me, and the grey of his eyes went dark.

"Say something," I said.

"Come here."

I climbed onto him and he drew a breath through his teeth as my knees settled on either side of his hips.

His hand slid up my thigh and gripped it hard.

I could feel how much he wanted me through his work trousers, and I rocked against it once, deliberately.

His head fell back against the wall.

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