“No!”
I don't even think about it. I stand up, but then my bag is gone too. Looking up, I find it in his hand.
“Mia Martinez.” The deceptively soft tone he starts using today disappears, and the psychopathic growl that I am familiar with pinches my ears. “This is not up for debate. Dad will be down in five minutes. You will sit down nicely like a good girl, drink the frappuccino I made for you like a good girl. When he comes down, Smith will hand you your burritos, and we will leave together with me carrying your bag. Do you understand?”
Oh gawd. Chilling strands shoots up and down my back with each word he says. The way he punctuates and drawl words commands attention. I can't even look away. His intense gaze holds my body in a firm grip, and his words sink into my mind. They start
