I pushed my chair back and walked past him. He shot his hand out and grabbed my forearm. Not hard enough to bruise — Griffin was too cowardly to risk physical evidence in public — but the hold was familiar.

The same controlling grip he’d used as a teenager to silence me at family dinners.

The nineteen-year-old Maren would have yanked her arm away, heart pounding. The woman I was now simply stopped walking. I looked down at his fingers on my sleeve, then slowly brought my eyes up to his.

“Let go,” I said, barely above a whisper.

He scoffed, trying to hold his bravado. “Or what?”

I didn’t blink. “Or you will remember this moment for a lot longer than you want to.”