Page 184 of Joker

For a second, all I get is static and the low sound of a man breathing like he’s got nowhere better to be. Then his voice slides through the line smooth as oil and twice as filthy. “So you’re the one playing house with my wife.”

Every muscle in my body locks so hard it feels like my bones might crack under the strain.

Cal.

No question now. No maybe. No theory. No guesswork.

The real thing. And somehow his voice is even worse than I expected.

Not loud. Not unhinged. Not screaming like some sloppy bastard who lost control of his life and wants to blame everybody else for it.

No.

He sounds calm. Pleasant, almost. Like he’s making a business call instead of talking about the woman he terrorized like she was an object he forgot at somebody else’s house.

That alone makes my vision go dangerously sharp.

I don’t speak right away. I let the silence sit there. Let him hear exactly how little of a reaction he’s getting.

Eventually, he chuckles low under his breath like he thinks that means something. “Not much of a talker, huh?” he says. “That what she likes about you? Big, quiet, stupid enough to mistake somebody else’s mess for your problem?”

I lean one shoulder against the wall outside Logan’s office and force my breathing to stay even.

Because if I let myself picture Raven hearing this man’s voice right now, I’m going to walk straight out of this building and start shooting at shadows until I find the right one.

“You got thirty seconds,” I say flatly. “Use them well.”

He laughs. The sound of it crawls straight up my spine. “Touchy,” he says. “I’d ask if she told you I don’t like other men touching what’s mine, but I’m guessing you’ve already figured out she’s not real good at following instructions.”

My jaw locks so hard it hurts.

There’s a flicker of movement in the hall where Dom’s still standing close enough to read my face and know exactly who’s on the line. He doesn’t interrupt.

Good.

Because right now, if anyone breathes wrong in my direction, I might shoot.

Cal keeps going like he’s enjoying himself. “Tell me something,” he says casually. “Does she still twist that ring finger when she’s nervous?”

The question lands like a blade. Not because it surprises me. Because I’ve seen it. Seen her thumb rub the bare skin where a ring used to sit. Seen her do it when she’s scared, cornered, trying to convince herself she’s okay when she’s not.

And the fact that he knows it too, that he knows her body well enough to recognize the damage he built into it, makes something ugly and ancient rise in my chest.

“She’s not yours,” I say. The words come out low. Controlled. Murderously calm.

He makes a soft, amused sound. “That’s cute.”

Cute.

My hand tightens around the phone until the plastic creaks.

“I married her,” he says. “That makes her mine in every way that matters.”

That one nearly strips the skin off my restraint. I push off the wall and pace two steps down the hall, needing movement before I put my fist through drywall and ruin Logan’s property for no reason.

“You married a woman,” I say, voice rougher now, “not a fucking dog.”

He hums like he’s considering it. “You bikers always this emotional?”