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My husband was a bad man.
But against my better judgement, I liked him.
CHAPTER 24
Belly of the Beast
Zeno
Ahungry belly had no ears.
Desire and need mixed together like a heady concoction and continued to spread through my system like wildfire, lighting every nerve ending with a thirst that could only be quenched by my wife’s touch.
This so-called hunger put me in a terrible mood. At work. At home. In bed.
I knew I’d become a fiend to be around, lashing at anyone who looked at me mildly wrong—including the last two meetings in my underground club with my associates—and putting my right hand through hell every night. All while picturing Darla in her own bedroom, possibly fucking herself with the various toys I’d bought her.
Hours turned into days and days turned into weeks and my wife’s resolve did not deter.
Her door stayed locked.
She was the perfect trophy wife at every event we attended, forever charming with her wit and graceful smile. I had to give it to her; she played the hell out of her role, as per our contract.
But every interaction left me feeling hollow.
I wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her, force her to acknowledge that this connection between us would not disappear today, tomorrow, or decades in the future.
It was here to stay and the faster we surrendered to the cards we were dealt, the better.
However, admitting to her that she had any sway on me—more than I already had—was another form of defeat.
She snuffed out the candle after I told her I missed her.
Meanwhile, I was the imbecile who kept the flame alive by spending my days dreaming of her and my nights wishing for the wetness of her cunt wrapped around my cock.
That very flame had me wandering the halls late at night, hoping I’d bump into her if she came out of her room. Anything to see her beyond our dinners with the whole family. Anything to exchange words that involved more than acan you please pass the fucking salt.
And that same flame was also to be blamed when five weeks after the fundraising gala, I finally saw a photographer taking pictures of my unassuming wife when she was out for a stroll with her best friends and bodyguards, hands filled with shopping bags.
I should have been overseeing a new gun shipment at our warehouse. Instead, I spent the day hunting through the city for Antoine Toussaint—to no avail—and then trailing my wife in the evening in an inconspicuous black Mercedes for half an hour like a creep…when I spotted the asshole.
All black attire with a black mask to shield his identity, he’d been eyeing Darla from the crack of an alleyway. Snapping pictures of her in the late evening.
Safe to say, I caught him.
And then dragged his ass down to the fiery pits of hell.
It was nightfall and we were in the manoir’s basement, which was reserved for extracurricular activities of the bloody variety. My favourite pastime, along with stalking my wife, was beating the fear of God andmeinto sinners.
Two hours ago, I’d hauled the photographer into the back of my sedan and drove him to the estate, where Ben joined me as I began the first round of torture. I brought my brother up to speed regarding the text messages I’d been receiving with taunts and pictures of Darla for five weeks now. And how I caught this fucker in the act of snapping more shots of my wife.
The photographer was now tied to a chair. There was a trail of blood near his temple from where I smacked him.
“How long have you been following her?” I asked in a low growl. “I won’t ask again.”
He blinked his hazy eyes and his mouth parted.
“S-Six weeks.” His speech was slurred, courtesy of the half hour Ben spent waterboarding him.
