Page 43 of The Scars We Keep
The others scatter quickly, disappearing into hallways, slipping behind doors, melting into the shadows of the house.Smart men who know when to make themselves invisible.
Within seconds, the room becomes empty.Except for my wife, Isabella, who stands in the center of the room in a dress that clings to every curve I have memorized with my hands and my mouth.She’s the one who started all of this without even knowing it.
I turn completely to face her.
There is still blood on my knuckles.It drips down my fingers in slow, thick drops that land softly on the marble, making little sounds.Rage still brews just beneath the surface, far from satisfied.My pulse pounds in my ears, throat, and even my cock.Because violence and possession do that to me.It’s always been that way.And when it involves her, the effect is ten times worse.My cock is hard in my pants, throbbing with the same savage energy that just put a man on the floor choking on his own blood.
She stands there in the middle of the room, staring at me with those dark eyes.This kind of violence doesn’t seem to scare her.No doubt she saw this before at her father’s house.Probably worse—sitting at the dinner table while men bled out in the next room and pretended not to hear their screams.This world doesn’t breed soft women.It breeds survivors.And Isabella is nothing if not a survivor.
“Now,” I say, taking a step closer to her, closing the distance between us one measured step at a time.Predator to prey.Hunter to hunted.“Tell me where the fuck you were?”
She doesn’t answer immediately, just stares at me with her chin raised and spine straight, still defiant even now, with blood on the floor, and violence crackling in the air between us.
And the real fight is still waiting now.The one where I find out whether my wife is loyal or playing me.If she is truly mine or if she never was.
“I went to see my father,” she says, her voice steady.Too steady.The kind of calm that comes from years of lying to dangerous men and getting away with it.
“I know where you went,” I say, blood still dripping from my knuckles onto the floor between us.“What I asked is why?”
“He called, so I went.That’s what daughters do.”
“Bullshit.”I step closer, invading her space and using my size to intimidate.“You don’t do anything without a reason, Bella.So tell me what it was.”
Her jaw tightens just a fraction.“He is my father.”
“He is also a man who would gut me in my sleep if it meant consolidating power.So I will ask you one more time.Why did you go there and what did he ask you?”
Something flashes across her face.Quickly.Gone before I can identify it.“Nothing that matters.”
“Everything matters.”My voice drops lower, the same tone I’ve used on many men right before I pull the trigger.“So tell me what he fucking wanted.”
She stares at me for a long moment.Her chest rises and falls with each breath, the fabric of her dress stretching tight across her tits.I can see the pulse beating in her throat, fast and hard.Then she lifts her chin higher.Defiant.That stubborn pride that makes me want to break her and worship her at the same time.
“He asked me what you have been up to.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“Nothing.”Her eyes don’t leave mine.“I told him I didn’t know anything.”
“I don’t believe you, Bella,” I say.“I’m your husband.The man you share a bed with.The man whose house you live in.The man whose cock splits you open every night.And you expect me to believe you sat across from your father and played dumb?That you told him you don’t know what I am doing when you have been in my office going through my shit?”
“Yes.I’ve already said I told him nothing.”
I observe her face.The shape of her mouth.A slight tilt of her chin.How her shoulders are pushed back, spine straight.Even now, she appears defiant.But there’s something in her eyes.Something that whispers the truth, even as my paranoia screams betrayal.
“I know you’ve been going through my things, Bella.My files.My desk.Reading about shipments, territories, and deals.Learning exactly what I’m doing to find Matteo.So don’t stand here and tell me you told your father nothing when you had everything he needed right at your fucking fingertips.”
For a moment, she says nothing.Then her expression hardens, the softness in her eyes replaced by fire and anger.“If you knew I was in your office, then why didn’t you say anything?Why did you let me keep going in there if you were so fucking worried I was spying for him?”
The question catches me off guard.It turns the tables.Puts me on the defensive when I should be the one interrogating her.
Smart girl.
“Would it have made a difference?”I ask.“If I had called you out, would you have stopped?”
“No,” she finally says.“I would not have.”
“Exactly.So tell me what you gave him.”
