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I pull my feet up onto the couch, my shoes sinking into the large rips, and lean my elbows on my thighs. “What did you do? Anything fun?”
Silence. Another slug.
“So you don’t want to talk about your day,” I muse, tapping my bottom lip. “What do you want to talk about then? Music? Films? Star signs? You look like the type of girl who believes in star signs. I’m a Leo. What about you?”
She whips her head to face me so fast that my heart stutters on its next beat. I meet her navy-blue eyes and then turn my attention to the cut on her forehead. It’s fresh and in the same place as Ronan’s. Something instinctive stirs inside me, and I reach out to touch it. I stop myself at the last second, playing it off by leaning down and taking the whiskey bottle from her hand instead. “That cut looks nasty,” I say, taking a swig and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “You should get that checked.”
“And you should go to hell,” she replies simply.
I laugh. “There she is. I was beginning to think you’d lost your voice.”
“No, just my sanity.”
“And why is that, sweetheart?”
Her glare is fascinating. The way it bores into me with such venom, it’s a look that even my enemies wouldn’t be brave enough to give me. Where does this unwavering fearlessness come from, girl?
“Because I thought I heard you say that I have to stay here, so I must be going crazy.”
“Is it such a crazy thing to want to live with my wife?”
“In this scenario, yes.”
My eyes graze the room, landing on the fourteenth-century sculpture that no longer has a head. It’s a weird feeling, being impressed, furious, and curious all at the same time. My body doesn’t know how to channel it. But it’s not about the furniture, dishes, or rugs, or even the priceless sculpture she decapitated. I’m not like Lorcan. I’m not attached to things. I take another drink, enjoying the burn making its way down my throat. “You should be thanking me. Your apartment was a dive.”
Her nostrils flare. Cute. “Right now, your place isn’t much better.”
I shrug, a smirk creeping onto my face. “Sure, it could do with a bit of tidying.”
Finally, she snaps, letting out a hiss of frustration. “Why aren’t you mad?” she barks. “I’ve trashed the place!”
Finally. Satisfaction trickles over me, and I revel in its glory.
Her eyes follow me cautiously as I slip from the arm of the sofa to the seat, closing the gap between my defiant wife and me. With every inch I cover, she freezes a little more, pushing herself into the back of the couch until she has nowhere left to go.
I can’t help the smile that creeps across my lips. It stretches wider when she notices it, and a look of horror flashes across her pretty little features.
Reactions like this are what get me off these days. As I spend most of my time in the Tunnels with our enemies at our mercy, physical torture gets old. Boring, even. Only so many tools can snap fingers and slit throats, and only so many octaves a man can scream in. And the outcome is always the same: death.
But psychological torture is a different kind of game. It’s like a game of chess. Both players don’t know what the other is thinking. But it’d be a mistake if she assumed I was anything but the grand master.
Her features harden when I reach out to drag the back of my finger along her cheekbone. Her skin is deliciously soft and pale, the touch of it making my cock throb in my pants. When my finger falls off the cliff of her cheekbone and makes its way to her neck, her throat bobs.
“Of course I’m mad,” I say quietly, uncurling the rest of my fingers to wrap my hand around her throat. I barely apply any pressure, but a hiss of air still escapes her parted lips. “I’m fucking furious. But it’s just another act you’ll be punished for in due time, sweetheart.”
Her eyes narrow, still wary. “If you want to punish me, just get it over with.” A scowl creases her forehead, causing the cut to glow angrier. “Trust me, I can handle it.”
I let out a low, slow whistle. “Don’t tempt me, sweetheart.”
“So, I killed your little friend, and I trashed your apartment. Punish me, then let me go,” she growls, pushing her neck against the crook of my hand. Holy fuck. She’s practically asking me to choke her, and the hammering pulse under my thumb tells me she might even enjoy it. I swallow the little moan that threatens to escape me. “You got what you wanted—my signature. Why do you need me too?”
My eyes slash to her lips, the bottom one in particular. So plump and pillowy and a perfect place to sink my teeth into. I set my jaw and force my attention back to her blistering gaze.
She’s right. I should let her go. And I planned on it, even right up until I broke into her apartment and pinned her under my weight, smelling the ghost of her sweet perfume. But that plan changed the second she refused to buckle under the touch of my tongue against her clit. Something about her is fascinating. Something that speaks to the darkest, most depraved part of my being. It’s a part of me that I promised I’d never indulge in again, not after Emelia.
But I won’t push her that far. To the edge, but not off it. It won’t hurt to have her as my little plaything for a while. And once she’s served her purpose as my wife and Belsky is off our back, and once I’ve broken her into a thousand pieces, I’ll let her go.
But I don’t tell her that. Instead, I lift my other hand to the cut on her forehead, running a fingertip along the length of it. Her eyes flutter shut, but not in pain. From under her lashes, she looks up at me, challenging me. My sweet wife, what a silly thing to do. She will learn that in due course.
