She had learned to recognize his footsteps. Not by sound, because he walked too softly for that, but by the way the air in the room changed when he entered. The silence became heavier, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. She kept her eyes on the floor, her fingers tightening around the end of her saree, her knuckles turning pale. She didn’t know what he would do today, and that was the worst part, not the anger, not the pain, but the uncertainty. A hand reached out and lifted her chin, not gently, not cruelly, just firmly enough to remind her that she did not get to choose where she looked. “Why do you look scared?” he asked quietly. She didn’t answer. She had learned that answers often made things worse. His thumb pressed lightly against her lower lip, as if testing whether she would speak without permission. Then he smiled, slow, calm, almost affectionate. “I have told you before,” he whispered, his face close enough that she could feel his breath, “I don’t like it when you look at me like I’m a monster.” His grip tightened slightly, just enough to hurt. “But I do like,” he continued softly, “that you’re scared of me.” Her eyes finally lifted to his, and that was her mistake. Because the look in his eyes was not anger. It was satisfaction. And that was far more frightening.