Bret wanted to lash out.
The urge crawled under his skin like ants...itchy, vicious, demanding release. His fingers curled, nails biting into his palm as he stared at nothing, jaw locked so tight it ached. He could almost feel it...the familiar satisfaction of unloading his rage onto someone smaller, quieter, easier.
Regina.
The thought hit him sideways.
Not her face. Not her voice. Her silence.
How she used to take it.
How she’d turn her face away when his words got sharp, how she’d retreat into the bathroom or curl into bed, shoulders trembling while she cried into her pillow like it was a f*****g crime to be heard. She never screamed back. Never insulted him. Never fought dirty.
Always peace. Always patience. Always that disgusting softness.
It used to make him feel powerful.
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