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I knew almost nothing about my wife.
Her room was still as I stood in the doorway. Not even the slight sound of breathing. I turned on the light, finding an empty bed. The chaos from this afternoon had been tamed, her belongings put away. It was almost like she’d always been here.
I walked into the room and cracked open the drawer of her bedside table, smirking at the contents. Saoirse was an undercover dirty girl. She didn’t own just one vibrator. She had a variety.
Pulling the drawer open fully, I paused on the contents near the back. Two bottles of lube and an opened box of condoms.
An open fucking box.
Without giving my compulsion to act a second thought, I picked up the box and crumbled it in my fist. She could keep her toys, but she wasn’t bringing something she’d used with another man into my house.
I charged down the stairs and out of my apartment to the trash chute, tossing the box and its contents inside to be incinerated. Because fuck that.
Not in my house.
Storming back in, I went in search of my wife. We obviously needed to have a conversation.
Clarity struck through my thundercloud of displeasure when I noticed the pool of light in the hallway coming from the den.
Of course she was in the den.
And sure enough, I found her curled up under one of the throws I’d bought with her in mind.
I took in the scene.
An empty bottle of water on its side on the ottoman with a crumb-covered plate next to it. Saoirse was in the corner of the sectional, her head against a cushion. The TV was off, the remote resting on the palm of her slack hand.
Sound asleep.
She was so still I would have suspected she was dead if not for the gentle rise and fall of her chest.
I crouched down in front of her, pushing her hair back from her face. “Saoirse. Time to go to bed.”
Her eyes fluttered but remained closed. “I’m sleepy.”
“I know, pretty girl. But you’ll have a better night’s sleep in your own bed.” Removing the remote, I took her hand in mine, stroking my thumb over her fingers.
“Not my bed,” she mumbled.
“It’s your bed now.” My thumb landed on her ring finger, and the absence of her rings brought me to a standstill. “You took your rings off?”
Her fingers flexed. “That was a long time ago.”
“How long?”
Her mouth curved. “Years.”
“And where did you put them years ago?”
Her hand flopped in the direction of the ottoman. I turned back, immediately spotting them near her plate. How I’d overlooked them, I had no idea, but I picked them up and easily slid them back on her.
“That’s better,” I murmured.
Her fingers flexed again. “It’s so weird.”
“They look good on you, though.”
She peeked at me through a slit in one eye. “Shhh.” Then she tapped my lips with her fingertip. “No more talking. I’m sleeping here.”
