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The low voice stops my hands cold. I won’t even bother admitting that I was, in fact, mindlessly chipping away at the black paint on my thumbnail. That would mean the devil thinks he knows me, and he doesn’t.
“We’re back to stalking, I see.” I kick off the heavy blanket responsible for the beads of sweat on the back of my neck and sit up.
The basement is darker than I remember when I wandered down here earlier. It was also empty and Van Gogh-less. Clearly, things have changed. My gaze finds the man of nightmares sitting at an antique dining table that looks as if it seats twenty people or more.
Standing, I notice my shoes are off, and my hair is no longer in a loose braid like when I fell asleep on the—“You gave me Biscuit’s bed to use as a pillow!”
The bastard snorts. “You were right. She preferred the blue one.”
Where is the fire exit to this shitshow? I want out.
“She preferred the blue one,” I repeat, still not believing my husband let me sleep on a pet bed. “And so, you thought, why waste the pink one when Reese could use it as a pillow?”
Am I the only one who thinks he’s trying to get me to murder him?
“Actually,” he says, turning his chair to face me, “we thought a water buffalo had found its way inside the house.”
His head tilts towards the middle of the table, revealing the other half of ‘we,’ who is none other than my rescued fur baby, Biscuit. Her betraying butt gazes up at the demon who has more money than sense before burrowing back down in the overstuffed blue cat bed, twice the size of the pink one he’d purchased earlier.
“Since we had just returned from the store, I wasn’t sure what you let in to kill me,” Van continues. “I grabbed the first thing I saw.”
“A plush cat bed?” Who the hell does he think he’s lying to?
“I’m confident in my defensive skills.” Van shrugs nonchalantly. “Not to worry, though. The only danger here was you choking yourself awake from sleep apnea.”
Though his words are dry and lack emotion, the delight in his eyes gives him away. The jerk is enjoying this immensely.
“You should be evaluated by a professional,” he continues. “It would be awful if you accidentally smothered yourself while I was away. I prefer you save that kind of gift for an anniversary.”
“There’s not a word horrific enough for what you are,” I note, realizing that this man slipped a cat bed under my head instead of over it. Is this how he shows affection? By propping my head up off the floor and opening my airway?
Nah. Van isn’t that sweet. It’s more likely that he didn’t want me drooling on his rug and interrupting whatever he was working on at the ridiculously large dining table…
The rest of the words die in my throat as I finally notice the wall before me. “Van?” My voice breaks in fear, and apparently, that disgusts my husband since he turns away and awakens the laptop in front of him.
“Van?”
I’m not going away if that’s what he’s hoping.
“Van!”
“What?” he finally bites back. “What do you want now?”
“I—” Hesitating, I search for the strength I’ll need to get out of this mess. “I want to know how many women you watch on those hidden cameras?”
Reese
I’ve never been a great judge of character. For some reason, my gut isn’t like everyone else’s. I swear it’s a genetic predisposition—a gift from my mother, God rest her soul. The Carmichael women have always gravitated toward toxic men. Maybe it’s because toxic men create unhealthy relationships—which are fun, if we’re being honest here.
Don’t roll your eyes. Not until you’ve tried one. Not that I’m suggesting you leave a good relationship for a toxic one—they’re not that fun. But the truth is there’s something exciting about a mysterious man. The fear of danger likely releases an extra shot of dopamine when they’re around, which makes the vajayjay vibrate. You know what I mean. The feeling is addictive.
The point is, I’ve always known Van Gogh wasn’t a picture-perfect citizen, but I never thought he would be a peeping Tom.
“Are you jealous, love?” His low voice carries an undercurrent of amusement in his words. “Did you think you were the only one I stalked?”
I slide back, my gaze volleying between the dozen or more screens. “Who are these women?” I can tell that none of the cameras are in weird places, like the bathroom or bedroom, which I guess is a little better.
The screens go dark, and before I realize what’s happening, my husband’s imposing body steps into my space and backs me toward the stairs.
