“First, you don’t make time for yourself.” He lifted his hand and extended one finger. “Second, I offer to watch your children constantly. Aria and my Renzo get along great.” Another digit raised. “Thirdly, a decade-long bout of abstinence is not healthy. You’re going to explode, my friend.”
I gritted my teeth. “You know, Salvatore, you’re right, and that explosion might happen right about now.”
“Well, I was thinking more along the lines of you exploding inside Violet. It’ll probably make your night. Hell, it’ll be the highlight of your decade. But hey, if you’re not up for it, I’ll be glad to take your pla?—”
I moved before I could think, my hands grabbing him by the collar and slamming him against the wall.
The frame behind him tilted sideways, but Salvatore just smiled and said, “And I rest my case.”
“Watch yourself.”
“Or what?” he challenged. “Nothing you do will change the facts. You need this woman, and even more importantly, your daughter needs her. Did you know Aria is terrified of going mad like Amara?”
My grip tightened. “She said that to you?”
“No, she admitted it to Renzo,” he grumbled. “But that’s not the point. Your kids need more than you have to offer. You can’t pour from an empty cup, Lykos.” He tipped his chin at my disheveled appearance. “They need Dr. Freud.”
I let out a sigh. Aria and Dimitros typically came to me with their problems, but lately, I suspected they tried to solve them on their own instead. Salvatore’s words only confirmed my suspicion, and while they both made me proud, it made me feel like shit.
“I drove my wife insane, and now I’m failing my children,” I muttered.
“Bullshit.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Is it though?”
“Undoubtedly. Amara had issues before she married you. Her parents shouldn’t have hidden that.” Something dark flickered behind his eyes. “You’ve tried everything, and it’s time you let her rest in peace.”
My mind immediately traveled back to when I first realized something was wrong with my wife.
She had been four—maybe five—months pregnant then. Far enough along that there should have been a softness to her, a warmth, something maternal beginning to settle in. Instead, there had been… nothing.
I had business to attend to that night and returned late, the house quiet in that suffocating way that comes just before dawn. The moment I stepped inside, something felt off. Too still. Too silent.
I found her in the kitchen.
Amara stood at the counter, sleeves rolled to her elbows, her frame thinner than it should have been for a woman carrying a child. The light above cast a pale glow over her skin, making her look almost hollow. Her focus was locked on the cutting board in front of her, slicing figs in a precise, mechanical rhythm.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound was too even. Too perfect.
I stayed in the doorway, jacket still on, watching her longer than I should have. Waiting for something—anything—to break the pattern. A shift. A pause. A sign that she knew I was there.
Nothing came.
“Amara,” I called out, careful not to startle her.
The blade didn’t stop.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I moved into the room, slower now, something uneasy settling low in my chest. With each step closer, the feeling grew—sharp, insistent.
And then I saw it.
Blood.
It was subtle at first. Just a thin red line slipping from her fingertip, trailing lazily down her wrist before dripping onto the counter. It blended too easily with the dark flesh of the figs, almost indistinguishable—like it belonged there.
