Foolishly, I continue to talk. “And what will you do to me if I put this down?”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “I will lessen the punishment you’ve already earned for pulling a knife on me.”
I swallow hard. Damn. But not a surprise.
“And if I don’t?”
His eyes darken and his brows draw together. “I will take that knife from you before I whip you soundly, cuff you, and put you to bed.”
My pulse spikes. He isn’t lying.
This is the man I’m married to?
The knife clatters to the floor, and I swear I see him smile when he bends to pick it up. Do I amuse him? There is nothing at all funny about this situation. He bends and lifts the knife, rises with a sigh, and places it on the counter behind him.
“Now come here,” he says, his implacable gaze on mine as he quirks a finger at me. Aw, hell. I know I’m in trouble, and I have no idea what to expect. I’m shaking before I reach him. I’ve botched up our wedding night so badly I want to cry. There’s nothing at all romantic about this, but I could have at least kept the peace.
Maybe.
“It was self-defense,” I say as I walk toward him taking tiny steps. I bite my lip, unsure what to do next or if the humor I see in his eyes is something I can trust.
“Self-defense?” he repeats. “And what exactly were you defending yourself against?”
“Your anger, obviously,” I say. “Big, burly men like you who are angry often hurt people.” A shadow crosses his features, but I’m telling him the truth. “And it was… precautionary. Reactionary, even. I wasn’t actually going to hurt you.”
“And isn’t that the problem?” he says. I’m close enough to him now that he grabs my arm and yanks me to him. I look up at him, and swallow hard. I can’t speak. “You could have hurt yourself sooner than you’d have hurt me,” he continues. “I don’t believe you could even stand the sight of blood.”
“I can!” I lie.
“Really?” he asks. To my surprise, he reaches a hand in his pocket and removes a switch blade. He spins it around and gives me the handle. “Show me.”
“What? No! You can’t—I—”
“Cut me then,” he says, pushing the blade into my palm. “Prove it.” My imagination quickly conjures up the image of his skin slicing open and vivid red blood splashing onto the floor. My stomach rolls with nausea, and I shake my head.
“I can’t,” I admit in defeat, my voice shaking. “I hate the sight of blood and would likely vomit all over this pretty tiled floor.”
He purses his lips, folds the knife, and places it back in his pocket, then does something that shocks me. He glides his hand to the small of my back and draws me to him, and when I’m pressed up to his warm, strong body, he holds my chin between his fingers to capture my gaze. He doesn’t scold or lecture but looks at me for the first time tonight with kindness in his eyes.
“My initial anger was not directed at you,” he says, his voice softer now, his tone kind. I remember the words Marissa told me.
He’s a good man.
In that moment, with the kitchen lighting illuminating his features and his eyes gentling before me, I almost believe it. Almost. But men are chameleons, morphing into what they think you want to see, and I don’t trust them. The ones who feign kindness are the worst of the lot, because they lure you in, making you vulnerable before they bite.
“You saw my scar and reacted,” I say, my voice hard, but my throat is tight and my voice shakes, so I can’t say anything more. I swallow hard. I don’t want to cry again. It hurts to cry, and I don’t want to hurt anymore. Not tonight.
“I did,” he says honestly, nodding, before he releases my chin and gently draws his index finger down the length of my scar. I shudder. No one has ever touched me there, and it disturbs me how easily he does.
“My anger was directed at whoever gave you this scar. Not at you.”
Oh.
Oh.
That’s… very different.
I swallow hard. “I—I’m sorry, then,” I tell him. “I had it in my head that you were angry at me for being ugly, and I—”
His eyes cloud again with anger and he puts a finger to my lips to silence me.
This time, I obey.
“I don’t ever want to hear you say that again,” he says. “Never, ever again. Do you understand me?”
I nod mutely.
He brushes my crazy hair off my forehead and tips my face up to his again with a finger under my chin. “And you must never raise your hand to me again. This is the only warning I’ll give you. Threatening me in any way will earn you swift and severe punishment. Is that clear as well?”