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“It’s true,” I say. “The stingy old bastard deserved a violent death for how he treated those kids alone.”
“Don’t say that,” she whispers. “It’s bad karma.”
The comment makes me smile. “You’re cute. And funny.”
“Don’t joke about things like that,” she says with a chastising frown. “How are the kids taking the news?”
“It’s hard to say. Johan seems angry. Étienne listened with half an ear and asked if he could go outside to play soccer. Guillaume cried.”
“And Sophie?” she asks.
“Sophie clammed up. She just continued talking to her dolls.”
Chewing her lip, she fixes her gaze unseeingly on the wall. “I’m worried about them. So many changes happened only recently in their lives, and now this.”
“I consulted a child psychiatrist.”
She looks at me quickly. “What did he say?”
“She.”
“What?”
“It’s ashe. She said I should take the children to the funeral to help give them a sense of closure. We’re also having weekly sessions. After the marijuana incident at the school, the principal thought it may be a good idea.”
Imagine that—the crime lord who tortures people for a living taking his niece and nephews for psychological counseling.
She blows out a sigh. “I’m glad you’re doing this for them. When is the funeral?”
“Tomorrow. The death certificate has been issued. There’s no reason to drag it out.”
“Are you going to bury him here?”
The mere sound of that makes me grind my teeth together. My reply is harsh. “I’m going to bury him in the valley.” I add in a cynical tone, “I brought him here, and that’s where he went back to. That’s what he chose.”
She catches her bottom lip between her teeth and gives a small nod.
When I open the tap in the shower, she says in an uncertain voice, “I’d like to be there for them.”
The idea of taking her to the valley turns my stomach. Everything inside me objects at that suggestion. I face her, my muscles tense at the thought of dragging her into that cesspool and exposing her to my shame.
Whatever she sees in my expression makes her stammer. “For the funeral.”
The single word I utter carries the finality of my decision. “No.”
Her shoulders sag. Disappointment washes over her features. I don’t explain. I can’t. I can’t tell her things she’d rather not remember. I can’t soil someone as beautiful as Sabella with mud and stink. I can’t spoil the only thing we have by showing her where I come from. If she witnesses where I have my roots, she’ll never want to touch me again.
She accepts the verdict with the same passive compliance she’s shown me since I moved her into this house. She kneels and submits. The goal was to make her suffer. Instead, it’s become my punishment. I resent that she shakes my decisions off so effectively. I hate seeing her on her knees. And I hate that it turns me on.
Gripping her face, I splay my fingers over her cheek. The touch isn’t rough, but my words are hard. Raw. “You won’t greet me naked and kneeling any longer.” Why the fuck am I making it sound as if it’s her fault, as if it was her idea? “Do you understand?”
She tries to shake her head, but my tight hold doesn’t allow her movement. Instead, she settles for a frown. “No.”
“Just don’t do it,” I say, letting her go with a gentle shove lest I’m tempted to lift her onto the vanity and push my cock inside her again. A part of me has to prove that I own her, and sex is such an effective method. Yet now is hardly the moment. Not after my words about death and decay are not even cold and the ugly picture must still be fresh in her mind.
I don’t look at her for fear of acting on the temptation. I hide by turning toward the shower where the water is already steaming.
“I don’t understand,” she whispers to my back.
