The house was hauntingly quiet, the kind of silence that usually preceded a quiet storm. Marcus sat at the head of the dining table. He wasn't wearing a shirt, his bronzed torso a map of scars.

I sat on the table itself, my legs clasped over his shoulders.

"Eat, Miya," Marcus commanded, his voice a low, vibrating rasp.

Between us sat a bowl of ripe, blood-red raspberries and a small pitcher of cream. He picked up a berry, dipping it slowly into the cream until it was coated in white cream.

"I'm full, Daddy," I whispered, my breath hitching as he brought the fruit to my lips.

"I didn't ask...