Page 108 of The Viper's Wife

When we get to the apartment, I walk straight to thebedroom, past the stupid collage I was working on on the kitchen table. It was a piece about a woman resting next to a man in a field of flowers—stupid, it was stupid, and I’ll throw it all in the trash later. Nico calls after me, but I shut and lock the door.

“Val, let me in,” he calls through the crack in the door. “We have to talk.”

Now, he wants to talk?

Fuming, I glance toward the closet where my duffel bag of cash is hidden. A sliver of the pink fabric is visible on the closet floor.

I can’t deal with this right now.

I strip off my clothes and step into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind me.

A disbelieving laugh escapes me as I catch my reflection in the mirror. Red hickeys mar my neck and chest in symmetrical trails. Despite my cleaning efforts, my upper thighs are sticky again. My lipstick is smeared up my cheek. My bangs are a mess.

I have half a mind to turn around and yell at him some more, but he’d probably like it.

He’d love it.

I step into the shower and hiss as freezing cold water hits my back.

In seconds, I’m shivering, glaring at Nico’s lime-scented body wash like I can crush it with my mind.

I know you’re scared, but I’m going to keep you safe.

I clap my hands over my mouth.

I won’t let anyone hurt you.

He was wrong. Every time he forces me to do what he wants—ignoring my wishes, jumping to conclusions, assuming the worst of me—he hurts me.

He needs to learn to process his stupid fucking emotions on his own. He can’t keep doing this. Making me come so hard I see stars. Telling me he loves me.

I clench my fists even as my teeth chatter.

I hate how he makes me feel.

I hatethathe makes me feel.

I can’t do a year of this. I can barely survive a month without wanting to tear my hair out or confess something terrible to him. Nothing about this is sustainable.

I’m still cold by the time I get out of the shower, but the discomfort centers me.

Nico sits on the bed, his suit jacket next to him and shirt slightly unbuttoned. His elbows rest on his knees, and he swings his head up as I walk out of the bathroom.

I glance at the bedroom door. “How’d you get in?”

“I popped the lock,” he says. “Do you feel any better?”

Somehow, he has the fucking gall to look interested in my answer. Like I’m going to tell him a shower cured all of our issues.

“No,” I say bluntly. I walk to the closet, and the scrap of pink fabric sticking out feels like something out of a horror movie. I can’t face it yet.

I turn and go to the dresser instead to put on a T-shirt and underwear. I try not to be so aware of Nico’s attention, but it’s a physical weight licking against my back. That’s all we are—physical.

Once I’m mostly dressed, I march back to the closet, bend down, and pull my bag to me. It’s empty—the guts scooped out like a pumpkin. I can barely breathe as I stare inside.

I don’t give a fuck how many zeroes Nico threw into my bank account the other day. I don’t own that money. Just aseasily as he put the money in, he could take it out. The only thing that I had, that wasmine, was inside this duffel bag, and now it’s gone.

I take two steps to the bed, and toss it at Nico’s feet.