The first light of dawn spilled into the room. I had been awake long before it, sleepless, my fingers clutching the book I'd smuggled from the library. Every stolen word fed me more than food ever could.
Behind me, the sheets shifted. A sharp voice cut through the quiet.
"What the hell are you doing?"
I didn't flinch. I turned a page, deliberately slow.
Daniel sat up, his hair disheveled, his eyes burning. The moment he saw the book in my hands, his expression twisted.
"A book?" His voice rose. "You dare?"
I met his glare. Calm. Unyielding. "Yes."
His jaw clenched. He swung his legs to the floor, striding toward me, fury radiating from every step.
"You think this is clever? Do you even know what they'd do if they saw you? Women here don't read, Linda. They don't question. They obey."
"I am not them," I said softly.
"His words were gasoline on an open flame, igniting a firestorm within me. With a ferocity that made my heart skip a beat, he snatched the book from my hands, his grip tightening around it like a vice. For a moment, I thought he'd rip it to shreds, the pages fluttering to the floor like wounded birds. But instead, with a snarl, he hurled it across the room, the book crashing against the wall with a deafening thud before slithering to the floor like a wounded creature, its cover creased and battered.
"You will conform to the expectations of every other woman in this village," he spat, his eyes blazing with fury as he loomed over me, his presence suffocating.
"You will not shame me with your defiance. Not in my house. Not as my wife."
My chest constricted, but I refused to break his gaze, our eyes locked in a silent battle of wills. The air between us was taut and treacherous, like glass on the verge of shattering, every word and movement threatening to unleash a maelstrom.
As I reached for the book, his words sliced through the tension like a razor-sharp blade: "A woman should pick up a broom, not a book." My hand hovered over the book, but I didn't retrieve it – not yet. I stood frozen, silently absorbing his venomous words, the sting of them lingering like an open wound.
Yet, my silence wasn't a sign of submission; it was a challenge, a dare to see how far he would take this, how much he would push me before I pushed back.
He spoke with a toxic tone, his words dripping with malice: "Don't dare to pick it up until you're willing to burn it in my flames."
I flinched, not out of fear for myself, but because I couldn't bear the thought of the book being reduced to ashes – the same book I'd risked everything to steal from the library in the early hours of the morning, when the streets were still and the world was hushed.
I took a step back from the book, not out of cowardice, but because I cared too much about it, because I knew that its words held power, held freedom.
The war between us was far from over – in fact, it had only just begun, the battle lines drawn in the dust, the outcome hanging precariously in the balance.
I could feel it simmering beneath the surface, waiting to erupt into a full-blown storm."