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Son of a bitch!
“One.” Gloating, she shimmies back and around.
“Not happening.” Casper waves us off, backing out of the door. “I’m going to bed. Don’t bother waking me up, I’ll come find you when I’m ready.”
“It’s not up to you!” Shouting at him, she follows my circle.
“The fuck it isn’t!” Without warning he sweeps her up and takes her to the side. Standing her on the low bench like a child, he towers over her with a scowl. “Not too long ago you could barely fucking stand. You had sixty-one stitches…”
Everything fades around me. Sixty-one stitches. How can he know something I don’t?
I try to picture that many stitches on her stomach, and it seems impossible.
Sixty-fucking-one.
How is it possible? Sixty-one?
Then I remember the faint line at the bottom of her belly. Not only was she ripped apart, but then she had to be cut open.
I want to push Casper aside and strip her so I can see it all. I want to see every fucking inch of her scars so I know exactly what to do to the cunts that hurt her.
“If you think for one second that’s going to happen again, think again.”
“You’re not the boss of me.”
Grabbing her shoulders, he rattles her. “Do you have a death wish?”
Leo doesn’t waste time stepping in, but before he can do anything, she’s got the point of her épée right on the hollow of her brother’s throat. “I don’t need your permission.”
“Yeah, you do. You need mine, you need his.” He points at Leo at the same time as he grabs the sword and throws it at my feet. “We all decide.”
“If she wins…” Leo looks at Arabella with narrowed eyes. “It’s up to you.” Nodding at me, he heads for the door.
“You’re a fucking traitor!” Yelling at him, she pushes Casper away.
“Don’t get prissy because I know better than to meddle in your marriage.” He turns, obviously waiting for Casper to follow him. “Come on, Deadshot, you’re clearly overtired and strung out. Time to put you to bed.”
With a snarl, Casper trudges out of the room. Leo laughs at his grumbles, closing the door behind him.
I can’t process the fact that Casper knew how many stitches she had when I didn’t. I can’t understand why everybody else seems to know more about my wife than I do.
“Pick up your weapon,” I tell her, nudging the épée with my toes. When she hesitates, my frustration gets the better of me. “Pick it up!” My bellow echoes around us.
“I’m not playing this silly game anymore.”
Breathing hard, she flips her mask off as she turns around. My hoodie swallows her tiny frame, the sleeves ballooning around her upper arms with how they’re pushed to her elbows.
“You play or you forfeit your request. You will never ask me for it again, and your colluding with my mother and every other fucker ends now!”
“I will do as I please.” She spins to face me with wide eyes and bulging tears. Her entire body is vibrating. I can feel her fury and her hate. I can feel it all like a tumultuous sea dragging me under.
You’re not getting it, are you, morena?
Hooking the end of the épée by the hilt, I flick the sword at her. Moving back, she doesn’t look away as it falls at her feet.
“Pick up the goddamn weapon.”
The air around us thickens into tar and oil, coating us, fighting our breaths. My chest aches. My body feels heavy. My head is a sinkhole of thoughts and voices. Guilt and love and anger.
