I don't know what's more disturbing: the fact I don't know the man in front of me, yet, he is my husband; or that I discovered him sitting in a room with a man who was just killed. Rico nor I pulled the trigger, but we didn't stop it from happening either. Doesn't that make us just as callous as the man who did?
After running the back of my hand under my nose—removing the contents spilling there—I return my eyes to Rico. A frown line mars the space between his brows as he watches me like a hawk, but he has not spoken a syllable since he warned me to remain quiet.
“Can I go home?” My voice is rickety. “I want to go home.”
His brows scrunch together as the quickest flash of antagonism fills his eyes.
Even with the scent of fear encroaching our small gathering, I continue, "I shouldn't be here. I don't want to be here." My words come flying out of my mouth before I have the chance to stop them. "Please let me go home."
The small flare of anger in Rico’s eyes expands to a raging tornado, but even rattled beyond comprehension, I crank my neck back and hold his gaze as he spans the distance between us. He carries himself with a confident poise that not only demands respect, but trust as well. And for some reason unbeknownst to me, I already trust him enough not to fear him.
His hand fills the side of my face when he places it on my jaw and peers into my watering eyes. For someone whose stern gaze alone could terrify any man, I find comfort in his gentle touch and glistening eyes.
“What do you remember about last night?” His tempestuous voice lowers to a more intimate tone.
My eyes bounce between his before I murmur, “Nothing.”
His thick brows slant, his gaze searingly intense. “Nothing?”
Tears dribble from my eyes when I nod, confirming his question.
He runs his thumbs over my cheeks to gather my tears. “From when?”
Sick gloom spreads through me. “I don’t remember stepping foot off the plane.”
Rico yells a foreign word. From the harshness of his tone, and the rage brewing in his eyes, I'm going to assume it was a Russian curse word.
“You were sipping on a spritzer, Kitten. You had three at the most. How can you not remember anything?”
The deep timbre of his voice sends a shiver down my spine. Don’t ask me if it's a good or bad shiver as I wouldn’t be able to tell you.
When I fail to answer his question, Rico scrubs his hand over the stubble on his chin before crouching down in front of me. I only just manage to hold in my gasp when we meet eye to eye. His dark eyes are captivating from a distance, but up close, they’re. . . soul-stealing.
“You're my wife, Kitten. Do you understand that?” he asks with his austere gaze staring into mine.
When I nod, relief fills his eyes. It’s short-lived.
“But not because I remember marrying you; I put two and two together when I saw our matching wedding bands.”And my tattoo. . .but I keep that snippet of information to myself.
With a furious storm raging in his eyes, he asks, “Do you regret marrying me?”
I balk, utterly shocked by his question. He can’t be serious? He just walked me past a room where a man was murdered without a single hesitation or spark of remorse in his eyes. If I didn’t regret meeting him, I’d be just as much a monster as he is. Furthermore, I don’t know anything about the man standing before me. I don’t even know if Rico is his full name or how old he is. I don’t know him any better than the man who delivers my mail. He’s a stranger.A scary stranger who can make my heart race in alarm and excitement, but still a stranger nevertheless.
I can tell the exact moment Rico reads the silent response of my eyes. The anger in his fear-provoking gaze grows, and the scruff on his jaw is unable to hide its manic tick. Standing from his crouched position, he extends to his full six-foot-plus height.
Keeping his eyes facing straight ahead, he says, “Collect your belongings; I’ll have one of my men take you to the airport.”
With that, he turns on his heels and stalks out of the room without a backward glance.
Chapter 4
Forty-five minutes later, a gentleman of medium build and short stature gathers my bag that was left dumped by the door within minutes of Rico fleeing it. Other than the clothes I'm wearing, I have no other personal stuff to collect, so I’ve spent the remaining forty-three minutes staring at the ceiling rose surrounding the crystal chandelier silently pondering. Forty-three minutes of reflecting only awarded me with forty-three minutes of blank memories. . . and a lifetime of haunted ones.
Dozens of eyes track me as I follow the balding middle-aged man through the large residence. Unlike an hour ago, the women with thick accents don't accost me when I enter the main living area of the house. They eyeball me with curiosity, but remain quieter than the front row of churchgoers during Sunday mass.
My eyes shift sideways when the heat of an imprudent stare captures my attention. The man I spotted earlier with the icy blue eyes has his shoulder propped up on the curved wall of the corridor that saw me walking into the gates of hell. His hair is dark and slicked back; his eyes are mocking and full of evil, and his chin holds less stubble than Rico's.
When he issues me a conceited wink, I hold my head high and turn my gaze to the front, trying to display he doesn’t scare me. If only I could stop my knees wobbling, then my attempts would be more worthwhile.
