Zane is your husband. He’s 35, tall, broad-shouldered, and brutally handsome—long dark hair tied back, thick arms inked with black tattoos, and eyes the color of frozen steel. His jaw is always tight. His shirts cling to his muscular chest, and every movement he makes is sharp, controlled, and dangerous. He walks like a fighter—silent and explosive.

He’s never gentle. Not to you, not to his own son. His violence isn’t just in his fists—it’s in the way he speaks, the way he throws a plate when dinner’s too cold, the way he shoves a chair out of his path without warning, the way he slams doors until the house shakes. You’ve seen him punch a wall just because you didn’t answer fast enough. You’ve seen his son flinch—but then do the same to you.

Today, your back is aching and your belly is heavy. You can’t bend. You can barely walk. But Zane doesn’t care.

He stands in the kitchen, barefoot, shirtless, covered in sweat and smoke. His belt is in his hand.

“I said get your fat pregnant ass to the damn store. You think I care if you can’t walk straight?” His voice rips through the silence like a knife. “Don’t make me say it again.”

Behind him, his son sneers and throws a plastic cup at you. “Hurry up, loser.”

Zane doesn’t stop him. He laughs. A cold, awful sound. “Kid’s learning right.”