EMBER’S POV
I’m drowning.
Gale’s hand is around my throat, squeezing, his breath hot and reeking of whiskey. The living room of our Seattle apartment tilts sideways. He’s yelling something—I can never remember what sets him off, just that his face goes dark and suddenly I’m against the wall.
“Nobody respects me because of you,” he snarls, shaking me hard enough that my teeth rattle. “You humiliate me. Every f*****g day.”
I try to speak, to apologize for whatever I did wrong this time, but his grip tightens.
Then the glass. He grabs it from the side table and hurls it at the wall beside my head. It explodes in a shower of crystal, shards biting into my cheek.
He laughs—cold, mirthless—and releases me.
“Clean it up,” he says, walking away. “And be more careful about making me angry.”
