"You have a husband," Ross replied, his voice a low, infuriatingly calm counterpoint to the chaos still echoing faintly in the streets.
He didn't wait for an invitation, lowering himself onto the plush velvet of a nearby sofa as if he was the king of the world.
He spread his legs in a gesture of vulgar ownership, claiming the space, the moment, and her diminishing sense of control.
A smirk played on his lips, devoid of warmth.
"Tell me, Miku, what would he want you to do today? Would he want you to be a good girl? To be safe? If I were him, I'd fuck you five times a day if not more."
"Don't." The word shot out of her, sharp as shattered glass.
It was a brittle edge laid over a bottomless well of fear.
Her hands, clenched into white-knuckled fists at her sides, trembled.
"Mention him again, and I walk. I swear it. I'd rather take my chances with the zombies. They're more honest than you."
The threat was hollow, and they both knew it.
