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Someone is about to set fire to the entire state of South Carolina. “Get out!”
As soon as the door closes and we’re alone, I turn to my wife. “What the fuck were you thinking, coming out here alone?”
“I wasn’t alone. Shakespeare came with me.”
“Because he found you sneaking out!”
She turns in her seat, pointing her finger in my face. “I wouldn’t have had to sneak out if you trusted me.”
Trust her… because she makes it so fucking easy.
“How can I trust you when you never do as I ask?” My brothers pulled onto the road, leaving us in the driveway.
“How can I do what you ask when you always tell me no?”
This conversation is going nowhere. “I’m just trying to keep you safe.”
My stomach clinches at the declaration. Is that what I’m doing? Keeping her safe or holding her prisoner?
“Okay, Van. No bullshit this time. If you tell me the truth, I promise to obey.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Within reason.”
“Tell you the truth about what?”
She leans across the console, her hands going to my cheeks, pulling me closer. “Am I your wife or your prisoner?”
Did I get angry because my prisoner escaped, or did I get angry because I thought my wife’s safety had been compromised?
Thoughts of her lying against me last night, checking every hour if I was still breathing, cross my mind. She was worried—something I haven’t felt from a woman in a long time.
“You are my wife,” I admit. “But you are also my prisoner until you’re proven not guilty.”
Even I’m tired of saying the same thing over and over. Enoch says that I should forgive and that everyone deserves a second chance. I understand that sentiment better than most, but that doesn’t change the fact that it happened. The question is, will that person use their second chance to make amends? Or will they use it to repeat the behavior? At this point, I’m still not sure what my wife’s intentions are. As long as I dangle her sister over her head, I’ll never know if she doesn’t run away because she needs information or wants to stay.
Reese’s warm hands fall from my face as she leans back into her seat. “That’s the problem, Van. We will never be more than warden and prisoner. My word isn’t enough for you.”
I want it to be, but I’ve been burned many times.
“I came here for you,” she finally says, after a moment of us sitting in silence. “I came here for us. Chief Benton was the patrol officer back when your mother was killed.”
I know that. I investigated him back then, and he was no help.
“Did he give you what you needed?”
The gesture of her coming out here for me does something to my chest. I don’t have the heart to be rude.
“Sort of.”
My eyebrows rise. “He was able to provide you with useful information?”
She nods. “Did you know they caught the arsonist who set the fire?”
Immediately, at the mention of the fire, rage boils under my skin. “I didn’t tell you that information for you to endanger yourself. I don’t need your help.”
“Maybe not, but you’re getting it anyway.”
I don’t know how there aren’t more spousal murders. I can’t even imagine making it to our first anniversary without stuffing her in a closet with my cock in her mouth to keep her quiet. “If they caught the arsonist,” I challenge, ignoring her backtalk, “then why wasn’t he tried?”
“He died in jail before they could bring charges against him.”
