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I feel well and truly put in my place. “I’m sorry,” I murmur quietly, my shame growing. Where the fuck is that woman who laughed in the face of threats? I’m having a hard time finding her. Perhaps because back then she was functioning on force. Accepting everything, taking it all without tears or complaint, because nothing would change. Now, I’m not forced to do anything. And everything could change. “I don’t mean to lash out. Hurt you.”
On a sigh weighed down with all the worry I know he feels for me, Danny rests on one knee at the end of the bed. “You don’t hurt me. Not physically. But each time you plant one on me, Rose, it fucking hurts my heart, because you only lash out like that when you’re feeling threatened. That hurts.”
Why is he keeping his distance? I need him all over me. Lifting my arms, I beckon him into them. Another sigh, but he comes, sinking his face deep into my neck, sticking his lips on my throat. I’m here now. I may as well accept it and get on with it. The less hassle I give him, the quicker he’ll deal with what needs to be dealt with and we can go home.
“How was your first meeting with the men?” I ask, rolling my eyes to myself, but short of asking how his day at work was, it’s all I’ve got. I feel his lips stretch against my neck. He thinks my question is stupid too.
“Let’s agree on some things,” he says, starting to dot kisses across my skin.
“What?”
“We don’t discuss business.”
I laugh. It’s not in amusement. My reasonable, pacifying mood has been turned on its head with one thoughtless, stupid statement, and this time it’s not from me. “Oh yes, you don’t discuss business with the latest whore you’re fucking.” I push into his chest. “Get off me.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he grumbles, not fighting back, rolling to his back tiredly. It’s a further insult. “I didn’t mean it like that. Stop being so fucking sensitive.”
“Are you just going to lie there saying dumbass shit? I am your wife. I have a fucking right to know what the fuck is going on with my husband, more so when I know he’s about to go to fucking war with God knows fucking who.” I pick up a pillow and throw it at him with force, and he catches it, his knees coming up, his body folding in protectively. “I fucking hate you.”
“You want to fuck?” he calls as I stomp into the bathroom.
“No. That’s not the answer.”
“Then tell me what the answer is, and I’ll do it.”
“We leave Miami.” I know it’s not that simple. God damn me, I know it more than I know I hate him right now. I slam the door, furious, and then burst into tears. I feel like my head could pop off, the stress, the worry, the anger, all coming to a head and compacting. We’ve never argued so much.
I stand in front of the mirror, looking at the woman I am. Searching for the woman I used to be.
Find her again, Rose. You need her.
I yell and swipe up the nearest thing I can lay my hand on and throw it at the mirror, shattering the glass. And I stare down at the razor-sharp shards littering the vanity, each one begging for me to take it and use it to release the pressure. To own my pain.
I’m halted when Danny charges through the door, nearly taking it off its hinges.
“Better than your face,” I say calmly, feeling anything but, my tears streaming.
He says nothing, just walks coolly across to me and yanks me into his hard, warm chest, swathing me in his arms, holding me tightly. The silence is peaceful. His closeness so needed. “I don’t know if I can do this.” I tell him what he already knows, but I need to speak with words not actions.
“You can do anything, baby.” He pulls out, holding my neck firmly, his eyes locked with mine. “Where’s the woman I met?”
“She’s got far more to lose now.”
“You’re not going to lose anything.” He kisses my forehead lightly. “Only your mind if you allow it. I need you to be strong for me, Rose.”
“Don’t say that,” I beg, my hands feeling him everywhere I can. “The last time you said that, you died.”
“Baby, don’t you know me at all?” His nose meets mine, his hands slipping to my cheeks. “I’m invincible.”
I should argue. I won’t. I’ve seen my husband in action. Watched him kill many men. He’s merciless, always one step ahead. “I know you,” I breathe, taking his wrists. “I’m sorry.”
He hushes me and walks me back to the shower, reaching in and flipping it on. “Let’s have a long, hot, intimate shower together.” He places me safely to the side and starts collecting up the glass from the vanity, dropping the jagged shards in the trash while the shower warms. He checks the floor. The sink. Runs the faucet to get rid of any slithers he might have missed before collecting a hand towel and using it to brush down the counter, ridding it of any glass. Or weapons. Then he checks the floor once more before he begins stripping me down, starting with my jeans, and I watch him as he concentrates on getting me naked. I’m going to be his respite through this. His way to unwind. A reminder of why he’s on this path. It’s a job I’ll take very seriously.
