Page 34 of Gravehouse

ASHER

I wipeblood from my mouth, sneering at my fucking wife. Beating the piece of shit who let her take tequila off him does jack shit to ease the rage burning through me.

She gives a short laugh, lifting her chin.

My jaw tightens. “You think this is funny, Venom?”

Nothing outside of her exists in this moment, and I almost trip when I notice what she’s wearing.

Black lace clings to her tits, leaving nothing to the imagination. That paired with underwear so sheer I see the shadow of what’sminebeneath it, turns my vision fucking red.

Here she is, lounging in a bed like a queen holding court, surrounded by men who have no idea how close they are to dying.

She props herself on her elbows. “You look like you murdered someone.” Her gaze drags down my chest. “Did you murder someone, husband?”

I step over the threshold, glass crunching beneath my boots. “Not yet.”

My lip twitches. “But the night’s still young.”

One of the idiots lifts his hands and inches off the mattress. “Hey, man, I’m…”

I move before he finishes.

My fist closes around his collar, hauling him off the mattress. His feet catch and skid across the concrete as I drag him toward the glass doors.

His mouth opens on a weak plea, swallowed by the static screaming in my ears.

Glass explodes when his body goes through it, rolling twice, before he stays down with a groan, clutching his stomach.

I turn back to the bed. Ivy hasn’t moved. Those green eyes find me through a veil of smoke curling around her, the joint burning down to a roach.

Amusement crawls across her face. “Feel better?”

My mouth pulls to one side as I close the distance. “Not even close.”

The other two scramble off the mattress, tripping into each other on their way out.

Sinead steps forward with a hand up. “Asher. Maybe we should?—”

“—Get out.”

They glance at the glass. “The guy on the patio...”

Without breaking eye contact from Ivy, I repeat, “Get. Out.”

Movement stirs to my side before the door clicks shut and then it’s just me and her and my rage.

Silence.

“You’re bleeding on your sheets.” Her head tilts as she follows each drop.

My lip twitches into a sneer. “Not my bed.”

But my fucking woman.

My hands close around her ankles, dragging her down the bed until she hangs over the edge. I snatch the burned-out joint from her fingers, flicking it into the corner. When she catches my wrists to steady herself, I see the bandage wrapped around her hand.

“What—”