"Did I stutter?" Her stepfather’s voice dropped lower, the threat in it as palpable as the sweat trickling down her spine. Rumali swallowed hard, the playful tease in her veins replaced by something sharper—a mix of fear and a thrill she couldn’t name. She turned slowly, her breath catching at the sight of him looming in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, the muscles in his forearms taut.

The stairwell felt suddenly smaller, the air thicker. Rumali forced her legs to move, each step upward a silent concession. As she passed him, she caught the scent of his aftershave—something woodsy and sharp—underlaid with the acrid tang of suppressed anger. His hand shot out, gripping her wrist just hard enough to make her pulse jump. "You forget yourself," he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. The words were quiet, meant only for her, but they carried the weight of a promise.