The second my palm hit the grill, the laughter stopped.
Pain tore through my hand so fast that my knees nearly buckled beneath me.
One moment, the backyard was filled with the scrape of patio chairs, the clink of ice in glasses, and the easy laughter of people who had spent the afternoon pretending not to notice how Ivan treated me.
The next, all I could hear was my own scream.
The smell of burning meat vanished beneath the sharper scent rising from the open grate, and for one bright, terrible instant, I saw my husband’s face reflected in the grill’s polished steel.
Ivan looked pleased.
Not shocked.
Not sorry.
Pleased.
His fingers were still locked around my wrist, and his mouth held the faint, satisfied curve he wore whenever he believed he had reminded me of my place.
He was certain I would do what I had always done.
