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Does he find her wet?
“No!”
I strain against the chains. My roar sounds animalistic, even to my own ears. I can’t do it. I can’t stand it. Fuck my promise.
“Rhett!” My voice carries through the room, lifting the roof. “Let me the fuck out! Open the door!”
I shout profanities and utter threats even Magda will be ashamed of, jerking on the cuffs until my skin is chaffed raw and I’m running the risk of pulling my arms out of their sockets. I scream until my voice is hoarse, but the sounds are trapped in the room designed for exactly that purpose.
“Valentina!”
I struggle in a rage so dark that reason flees my mind. I grapple with thoughts that slice my heart open and blind me in the red fury of my possessive jealousy. I wrestle with nothing but the air, as if I can strangle those images torturing my mind and lay them to rest. Clawing and kicking, I twist my body until the bench falls from under me. I kick at the wood with my boots, the splintering crunch as it breaks a satisfying sound that feeds my need for violence. Pain shoots up my injured leg, a sharp stab lancing in my knee. I fight until every part of me is hurting as much as my heart, until I have no more energy left.
Sweat-drenched and battered, I sag in my chains, hanging by the threads of sanity. The irony of where I find myself isn’t lost on me. I’m chained in my own torture chamber, suffering a self-inflicted torture far worse than anything I’ve done to any enemy who’s ever had the displeasure of crossing this doorstep.
“Valentina.”
Her name is a croak. My throat burns. I can no longer scream. I can only sob and give in to the cruelty of my imagination as it leads me on a graphic tour of Valentina’s first time.
* * *
Sometime during the early hours, I wake. I found a position on my knees, my arms pulled up and my head hanging between my shoulders. I must’ve passed out from physical exhaustion. My throat and eyes are dehydrated. Scratchy. Everything inside of me is raw. I did her a favor, but the selfish part of me is too great, the possessive part of me too complete to accept it gracefully. I glance at the wall clock. It’s done.
Too late.
The key turns in the lock, and the door opens. Rhett pauses when he takes in the scene.
“Come get me,” I grate out.
He hesitates, but finally approaches with quick steps. As he unlocks me, he avoids my eyes. The minute I’m free he retreats to the far end of the room.
“Leave,” I growl, frightened that I’ll take it out on him.
He doesn’t let me tell him twice. Like an arrow from a bow, he shoots through the door, his steps falling in a fast jog down the hallway.
I wipe a hand over my face, the stubble where there’s no beard a reminder that I need a shower and a shave. Every ounce of my body is pulled tight. More than anything, I want to hunt Quincy down and kill him. In less than an hour, I’ll face him and listen to his account. I want every fucking detail so I can pretend I’ve been there, part of it all. I’m too damn jealous to even spare myself the pain.
Walking to the wet bar that’s always stocked with bottled water and drinks––torturing people is thirsty work––I pour a whiskey and shoot it back neat. Then another. And another. I need the alcohol if I’m not to crush Quincy’s windpipe and rip off his dick. For good measure, I have a fourth. The alcohol burns my stomach and relieves the worst of the rawness in my throat from the vile curses I uttered all night. My skin heats, and my brain blurs enough to dull my emotions, enough to get through the hour that awaits without committing a murder in my own house.
* * *
Valentina
At five, I’m up as usual, but Gabriel doesn’t come to the kitchen for his coffee. I leave his breakfast on the hot tray and shrug inwardly. If he had a rough night, I hope he wakes up with a hell of a hangover. It will serve him right for the stunt he tried to pull on me. Still seething with annoyance, I take the washing basket and set out to collect the dirty laundry. In the hallway, my step slows as none other than Gabriel turns the corner, heading my way.
He looks like shit. His hair is disheveled, standing in every direction, and stubble blurs the neatly shaved line of his beard. His eyes are bloodshot and his clothes––the same clothes from last night––are creased. Wherever he’s been, it looks like he slithered out of some woman’s bed a second ago.
