Page 63 of Snow

She takes a sip.

He keeps staring.

She takes another.

When she tries to put it down, he tweaks his finger beneath it and makes her keep drinking. He pushes harder. She can’t drink fast enough. The wine spills down her chin and drips onto the towel. She coughs.

He stops.

He takes the glass away and puts it down with a thud on the table. Then he points to the stain on the towel she’s wearing. His face darkens.

She is shaking.

He stoops down, stares at her, his face barely a breath away from hers. “You fat, miserable, frigid, whore,” he spits.

She swallows hard, almost choking on her tears.

He takes hold of her upper arm and squeezes tight, pinching her soft flesh with his large fingers. She winces, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he uses the other hand to unfasten his belt.

Oh, fuck, no.

Rage swells inside me. It beats a savage rhythm in the crevices of my ribcage, straining, cracking, exploding.

I move to the front door and rap hard with a clenched fist.

It takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to rip it open and tear him apart in front of her. But I’m smarter than that.

I hear him mumble for her to stay where she is. Not to move.

He pulls open the door. His eyes widen. But my hand is around his throat before he can utter a single word.

As I drag him into the shadows, I whisper, “You’re about to learn an important lesson, Steven. Are you ready?”

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