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“These women,” he pauses, casting me a warning look, “are none of your business.”
I beg to differ, but his palm claps over my mouth before I can tell him that.
“The next time you decide to defy my orders and sleep somewhere other than my bed, you will be punished.”
Heaven help me, I laugh as his hand falls. “Your orders?” I arch a brow. “I don’t recall the basement being off-limits.”
That wicked smile of his flashes for only a second before it’s gone.
“It isn’t.” he clarifies. “Sleeping anywhere but my bed, however, is.”
I’m pretty sure he never vocalized this rule, but you know what? Other than the tingling in my lower body, I have more important things to discuss. “Whatever,” I snap. “I really don’t care. What I care about are those women and their privacy. It’s not right!”
My chest is heaving by the time I’m finished. “Well, then. I suppose apologies are in order. I wasn’t aware that stalking was so offensive.” His cheek twitches as he struggles to maintain his smile. “You see, the last woman I stalked failed to tell me that when she caught me watching her through the lounge window, the way she slipped her fingers under her waistband wasn’t because my behavior turned her on, but that she was soothing her fear and subsequent violation of privacy.”
I hate him—mainly because he’s right. I did pleasure myself and let him watch once upon a time after the lounge had closed. I told you. I don’t make great decisions. My gut is a thrill-seeking whore.
“Why are you watching those girls, Van?” I don’t expect him to answer, considering this is my third time asking. He won’t disclose all of his nefarious things—especially not to the person he thinks betrayed him.
Again, those deep green eyes flash for a moment. And I imagine my husband is thinking precisely the same thing as me.
There’s no level of trust between us. I don’t know if there ever really was. Maybe we had respect for one another since I was doing something shady, and he was, too. We respected each other’s criminal activities—as toxic as that may sound—but we all have things we do that are less than admirable.
I’m not one to say that I’m a saint. I’ve stolen money from men who sometimes worked hard for it for many years. Crime is crime, no matter what it’s for. But there comes a time in everyone’s life when they’re so desperate they blur the lines between right and wrong. We should have a justice system that is not tainted by money and greed. It should be fair. But then again, people really shouldn’t be so terrible, either.
When I was young, I honestly thought everyone should love one another. And I still, to this day, believe it would solve all our problems, but that’s just me.
Van lifts my chin and holds my gaze. His eyes change from amused and standoffish to threatening. “If you come back into the basement, you will never leave. This room and my viewing preferences are off-limits.”
I don’t know why I get so pissed off by that statement. Regardless, I fail to keep my mouth shut. Instead, I push him hard in the chest. “So, I’m supposed to just fucking trust you?”
He smiles. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh, well. That clears up everything.”
“As my wife,” he snaps back, “you’re to do as I say.”
Oh, no, that is so not happening.
“Listen, Alistair.” I say his name all dramatic and uppity. “We’re not back in the 1920s. It is not okay to be a condescending prick. I will not do as you say unless you do as I fucking say.”
I’m picking a huge fight, and honestly, after that blissful nap, I’m ready for it.
Van grabs my wrist and yanks me to him. “Shall I remind you this is not a real marriage? I am your warden, and you are my keep. You will do as I fucking say, or I will lock you in solitary, and you will never see your precious sunrise again.”
“Let me go before I slit your throat with Biscuit’s claws.” I wrench my arm from his hands, and he has sense enough to step back.
We don’t say anything else. I simply walk up the stairs, lift my middle finger, hold it there until I reach the top, and slam the door, finding my way to the kitchen for something to eat.
I don’t know what Van does all night down in the basement, but it’s sure not ordering groceries. The cabinets are bare, with just a few essentials. And the only thing in the refrigerator is a few fruits and vegetables that I’d rather starve than eat. Not saying I’m a junk food addict. I’m just saying squash isn’t my thing. Neither is eggplant.
I find it gross and don’t want to eat it. Therefore, I’m DoorDashing. I’m not the greatest cook, anyway. I tend to live off Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and dill-pickled cashews. Not together, obviously. That would be weird. But one is breakfast, and one is lunch. Dinner is typically ordered. Being a teacher’s assistant, I don’t always get off on time to cook.
I pull up the app for food delivery, finding something with some healthy food and some not-so-healthy food. I settle on a sub sandwich and a bag of chips. I call that a win. I also call it stupid to have to order when you could just keep sandwich stuff at home for half the cost, but whatever.
Every prisoner gets a meal. So, if Van Gogh won’t provide, I will provide for myself.
I order my food, setting the destination to my pinpointed location. Then I proceed to wander the halls until I come to an office. I find a bar inside the room and decide I need a drink, like yesterday.
