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She loved watching her husband at work. Most people thought he was dense or slow because he was quiet. The truth was, he was a snake, watching and waiting, coiled and ready to strike. She recognized him coiling up in preparation and knew she would reap the benefits later. He always wanted sex after a victory.
“Take her. We’ll bring her to him for a present.”
That wasn’t what she’d expected. Or what she wanted. Imelda didn’t want a woman here that Wolf liked. She swatted the slave away from her hair, giving her a signal to leave. She scampered to the corner with the rest. Spinning her chair around, she watched her husband, shooting him daggers with her eyes.
“He doesn’t have a slave of his own, does he?” El Cuchillo mused.
“No, señor. He takes one occasionally for his needs but hasn’t in a while.”
“Then, yes. Take her for him. We’ll break her and let him put her back together. Let’s see what he does with that. It should tell us if he’s on our side or not.” El Cuchillo strode toward the door before Imelda could say anything. “And that will be the last we speak about Lobo Gris being a traitor. He passes or he’s dead. End of discussion.”
Imelda didn’t like this. Any of it. The fact Lobo Gris hadn’t taken a slave had given her hope that he was just saving himself for her and was getting over a shyness of her or a fear of El Cuchillo, both of which she could conquer with time. But another woman was something else entirely.
