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I cock a brow, enjoying this defiant side of her. “What makes you so sure I won’t follow through?”
She nods to my chest. “Your tattoo.”
“You’ll have to be more specific. I have many tattoos.”
She grins. “Yes, but only one that stands unscorched by the flames around it.”
The sunflower.
“No matter how much you hate me, Husband, I will always be the one thing you can’t destroy.”
I don’t miss the fact she said can’t, not won’t.
But seeing as I’m a giant asshole, I remind her of one simple fact. “Don’t make the same mistake as others. I will destroy myself if it punishes my enemies.”
She might be my wife, but she is still my enemy. I vowed to stay with her until death; I never said I wouldn’t be the one who caused it.
“Yeah, yeah. Another day, another empty threat. I can help you come up with new material later. At least then I won’t spend these six years bored to tears.”
She at least got the tears part right.
“Come on, Mr. Cain.” She waves off my glare. “Let’s buy your pussycat a bed.”
Reese
Three hundred dollars and a trunk full of cat supplies later, we pull into Eden, winding down the long drive to The House of Cain. We haven’t spoken since all the threats in the parking lot, but it wasn’t for my lack of trying.
I tried to weigh in that Biscuit would prefer a pink bed, but one scathing look told me he was no longer in the playing mood. And while I love to piss him off, I was hesitant to do so in a public setting where innocent people could get caught up in his anger.
Alistair Cain might be an assistant district attorney, but Van Gogh still lives deep inside his cold, dark heart. I wouldn’t put it past him to set the entire store on fire just to prove that he’s still capable if pushed. So, I stayed quiet and let him spend a ridiculous amount of money on a cat he supposedly hates. Until now.
“Since I never signed a prenup,” I start, watching his brows creep higher, “I’d like to know how we can afford such an enormous mansion. Do all ADAs make millions of dollars like you?”
“Billions,” he corrects, “and no, my ADA salary does not bring in billions.”
I try not to seem shocked that the homeless boy I once knew is now a billionaire.
“What does, then?” I prompt. “Please tell me you aren’t a drug dealer, too.”
I can only handle so much criminal activity. My husband might be hotter than a Dior model, but I must draw the line somewhere, and apparently, street corner dealing is it.
Those hypnotic green eyes pin me with dark secrets I’m shamelessly excited to uncover.
Maybe I wouldn’t mind if he’s a drug dealer after all. Let’s be honest. Even before I knew Van Gogh was the Van Gogh, I couldn’t stay away. I knew he was no saint, lurking around the cigar lounge I worked at, yet I didn’t care. The dark and dangerous aura he exuded pulled me in with no effort on his part. I wanted him to rob the lounge and take me hostage. Hell, I wore the cutest, most uncomfortable outfits I owned just to be prepared for the day when he’d strike. Then he turned out to be an arsonist, killing my dreams of a bit of hostage role-play.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Van’s forehead pinches as if he’s… No way. He can’t be.
“Are you nervous, Mr. Cain?”
A scoff-like noise escapes his lips. “Don’t flatter yourself, love. In no lifetime will you ever make me nervous.”
He’s a big, fat, arson-loving liar. “Then why are your hands twitching as you stare at me?”
I dip my head, nodding as if he needs to look for himself to believe me.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he slips his hands into his pockets out of spite, kicking the car door open with his shoes. “Our vows require that I protect you.” His mouth turns up into a smile. “I understand that to mean even from my own hands that yearn to surround your neck.” He chuckles. “In a lovingly tight grip, of course.”
