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I want people to earn their demise at my hands. It makes their pleas for mercy much more delicious when they’re denied.

And while Carmen’s certainly earned her spot in Hell, at least in my book, I don’t really have a reason to snuff her out.

No matter how badly my bones ache for the chance.

“She’d learn to,” I tell her, my lips curling up at the corners. “A couple rides on my cock, and she’d forget all about her cold, vindictive bitch of a mother.”

Carmen just smirks, and the gesture infuriates me. My hair stands on end, heat rolling down my back like fire across a grassy field, while the urge to wrap my fingers around her throat and squeeze until her eyes pop from their sockets becomes a little overwhelming.

I pinch my thigh, trying to steady my blood, reminding myself that she’s just doing it all on purpose.

“You haven’t told her, have you?” she asks, arching an eyebrow. “I’ll give it to you, she’s a very pliant girl. Eager and willing, the way Rafael brought her up to be. But I don’t think she’d forgive you for sleeping with her mother.”

“Tell her, and I’ll slit your fucking throat.”

Clicking her tongue, Carmen turns away, walking back to the armchair. She picks up her wine glass, taking a big gulp while taking a seat, crossing her legs again. “As much as I’m sure you’d love to, we both know you won’t. I know that look in your eyes, Kallum. You care about Elena. Moreover, you care what she thinks of you, and I think we both know there’s no coming back from something like this.”

When I don’t say anything to refute the matter, knowing she’ll just twist my words anyhow, she laughs, throwing her head back like this is all some big fucking joke.

“Well,” she says, taking another drink, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. “Guess you’d better get to her before I do, then.”

I contemplate the logistics of Carmen Ricci’s murder in three different ways before I stalk out of her house, intent on finding Elena. She’s tucked in the back seat of the SUV, scrolling aimlessly through her phone and complaining to Marcelline about her mother.

The window is cracked, perhaps to cool the interior now after a brief rain, and I pause before opening the door, listening quietly.

“...and honestly, she acts so prim and proper all the time, and then tonight my sister tells me she had an affair? What the hell? My mother doesn’t even like when men wear ankle socks because she says it’s immodest, but she was screwing around on my father? And wants to judge me?”

She blows out a breath, and Marcelline sits in her usual stony silence, punctuating Elena’s story with the occasional mhm.

Hooking my fingers around the handle, I yank the door open, revealing my wife with her feet propped against the opposite window, lying on her back as she stares up at her phone. She rolls her eyes toward her forehead, looking at me upside down.

“Is she still breathing?” she asks, the question a stab wound to my chest, proving Carmen right.

Elena probably won’t forgive me.

“Your mother is plenty alive,” I say, slipping my hands under her back and lifting just enough so I can slide beneath her. She grunts as I do most of the work, her body going limp and molding into mine the second I let her go.

Sighing, Elena drops her hands, pressing her phone into her chest. “That did not go the way I was hoping.”

I thread my fingers through her hair, my chest pinching for her. “I know.”

“My fault for having expectations, I guess.” Her voice catches at the end of her sentence, and she sucks down a gulp of air, rolling so she’s facing the back of the seat. “Was your mom normal?”

“Normal’s relative, I think.”

Elena hums, closing her eyes as her nose brushes the leather seat. “Well, relatively speaking, I think my mother’s insane.”

Snorting, I take a second before responding, the pinch in my heart expanding into more of a dull pang, something bold that I can’t possibly get rid of.

Because I can’t stop wondering what Elena must think of me.

Later, there’s a knock at the door of the penthouse we’re renting during our stay; Elena’s sprawled out in the bed, breathing heavily and twitching through some kind of dream, so I slip out quietly, hoping she doesn’t hear me leave.

When I open the door, I’m not at all surprised to find Rafe standing on the other side, smoking a cigar even though the hallway has a bold NO SMOKING sign.

I guess some things really don’t change.

We stand there for several beats of time, just staring at each other, until finally he breaks first.

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