Page 88 of His Savage Ruin
But I don't move fast enough, and then he's filling the doorway with his expensive suit rumpled and his tie hanging loose around his neck.
"There's my beautiful wife," he says, and the words sound thick and slurred like his tongue isn't working properly. "Were you waiting up for me,bambola?"
The endearment makes my skin crawl the way it always does, makes me want to scrape my flesh off with my fingernails until there's nothing left for him to claim as his.
Doll—that's all I am to him—something pretty to display and manipulate, something with no will of its own.
"I was just going to bed," I say carefully, keeping my voice neutral and unthreatening because I've learned that the wrong tone can set him off when he's like this. "It's late."
"Too late for your husband?" He pushes off the doorframe and moves into the room. "Too tired to spend time with the man who gives you everything?"
There's something in his voice that makes alarm bells start ringing in my head, and my eyes flick to the door behind him, calculating distance and probability, but he's blocking the only exit and I know from experience that running just makes things worse.
"I'm not too tired," I lie, forcing myself to stay still even though every instinct is screaming at me to move. "I just thought you might want to rest after your meeting with your father."
"Rest." He laughs, and the sound is ugly and bitter. "That's what you think I need? Rest?"
He takes another step closer, and I can see his hands curling into fists at his sides, can see the way his pupils are dilated until there's barely any brown left around the black. This is bad. This is worse than usual.
"You've been my wife for four months," he says, and each word comes out precise despite the slur, like he's concentrating hard on making himself understood. "Four months, and you still flinch every time I touch you. Still act like I'm some kind of monster."
"I don't think you're a monster," I say automatically, the lie so practiced it comes out smooth despite the fear making my hands shake. "I'm grateful for everything you've done for me."
"Grateful." He spits the word like it tastes bad. "If you were grateful, you'd act like a proper wife instead of freezing up every time I try to touch you. If you were grateful, you'd give me what I'm owed instead of fighting me every goddamn time."
My back hits the wall before I realize I've been retreating, and the solid surface behind me makes panic spike hot through my veins because now there's nowhere left to go. Lorenzo keeps coming, closing the distance between us with movements that are surprisingly steady.
"I've been patient with you," he continues, and his voice has dropped to something lower and more dangerous. "But four months is long enough, don't you think?"
He's close enough now that I can see the broken blood vessels in his eyes and his hand comes up to brace against the wall beside my head, caging me in, and I have to tilt my face away to avoid breathing in the alcohol fumes.
"Lorenzo, you've been drinking," I try, keeping my voice calm even though my heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest. "Maybe we should talk about this tomorrow when you're feeling better."
"I feel fine." His other hand closes around my wrist, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises I'll have to cover with makeup tomorrow. "And I'm tired of being made to feel like a fucking failure because my own fucking wife won't let me touch her."
He pulls me away from the wall, dragging me toward the bed despite my attempts to dig my heels into the carpet, and the fear that's been simmering in my gut explodes into full-blown terror. This is it. This is what I've been dreading since our wedding night when he first tried to force himself on me and I fought hard enough that he gave up in disgust.
"Please don't," I hear myself saying, and I hate how small my voice sounds, how weak and helpless, like I'm some fragile thing that needs protecting instead of a grown woman who should be able to defend herself. "Please, Lorenzo, not like this."
"Not like what?" He shoves me down onto the mattress hard enough that my teeth click together, and then he's looming over me with his weight pinning me in place. "Not like a husband with his wife? That's what this is, Alessia. This is what marriage means."
His hands are everywhere—grabbing at my nightgown, yanking at fabric, trying to push my legs apart while I twist and fight beneath him. I manage to get one arm free and swing at his face, my nails raking across his cheek hard enough to draw blood, and he rears back with a curse that gives me just enough space to scramble away.
But I don't make it far. His hand tangles in my hair and yanks me back, sending pain shooting across my scalp sharp enough to bring tears to my eyes. Then his other hand is around my throat, squeezing, cutting off my air in a way that makes black spots dance at the edges of my vision.
"You stupid bitch," he snarls, and spittle flies from his lips to hit my face. "You think you can fight me?"
I claw at his arm, trying to break his grip, trying to breathe, but he just squeezes harder until I can feel my pulse pounding behind my eyes and my lungs burning for air they can't get. This is it. This is how I die—strangled by my drunk husband on our bedroom floor while he tries to rape me.
The thought makes something snap inside me, some survival instinct that's been dormant my whole life suddenly roaring tothe surface. I'm not going to die like this. I'm not going to let him win.
My hand finds something solid—a small marble box that my mother-in-law picked out to match the decor. I grab it and swing with every ounce of strength I have left, feeling it connect with the side of Lorenzo's head with a sick thud that makes my stomach turn.
His grip on my throat loosens immediately, and he staggers backward with one hand pressed to his temple where blood is already starting to seep between his fingers. The surprise on his face would be funny if I wasn't still gasping for air, if my throat didn't feel like it's been crushed.
"You hit me," he says, and he sounds genuinely shocked like the thought that I might defend myself never occurred to him. "You actually hit me."
"Stay away from me." The words come out hoarse and broken, but I force myself to my feet anyway, to put distance between us even though my legs feel like water. "Don't touch me again."
