Page 74 of Icebound

“She’s a raving maniac!”

“Yes. You shouldn’t have goaded her,” he added.

“Are you blaming me for this?” she said in a dangerous voice.

“No, bébé. I should have warned you about Maddelena. If we hadn’t broken things up, she might have killed you.”

“I thought you said I won?”

They’d reached the door of her room. The guard who was usually in attendance was gone, and he pushed her inside, following her and locking the door after them.

“Get on the bed.”

Fury and desire swept through her. “Fuck you.”

“Not now, bébé. I have to patch you up.”

“Fuck you,” she said again, and he pushed her down on the bed.

“So insistent. Lie back and I’ll get the first-aid kit.”

“You have a first-aid kit in here? Why?”

“Because I’m married to Maddelena.”

It wasn’t a comforting answer. Seventeen years, she’d said. She hadn’t known Bastien seventeen years ago.

“Why did you marry her?” she called after him as he disappeared into the adjoining bathroom.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time. She was very pretty when she was young.”

“She’s beautiful now,” Chloe said, not happy about it.

“Not after you got through with her. She looks even worse than you do.”

It only gave her momentary satisfaction. God, she was bloodthirsty today! “When did you marry her?”

He’d emerged from the bathroom with a white box in his hand. “Why all this interest in Maddelena?”

“Considering she’s trying to kill me, I thought it a good idea to find out everything I can.”

“What does our marriage have to do with that? It was a long, long time ago. Are you, by any chance, jealous, chérie?” He seemed amused by the idea.

“Not if you don’t stop calling me those phony endearments,” she said in a dangerous tone of voice.

“This is Maddelena we’re talking about. And jealousy is a waste of time. I don’t owe you or any woman my faithfulness. Move over.”

She didn’t want to move, but then he’d probably put those beautiful, deadly hands on her and she was too angry to let him. She inched over on the mattress, grudgingly, and he sat down beside her.

“You look like a prizefighter,” he said, touching her face gently as she winced. “You’re going to have a black eye.”

“I’ll survive,” she muttered gracelessly.

“And your hand is a mess. I just hope you didn’t break any fingers when you hit her. You can’t just punch people without knowing what you’re doing.”

“Yes, I can,” she said mutinously as he picked up her hand and surveyed it. It hurt like hell, and he touched it carefully, running his fingers along the back of her hand, her palm, slowly, before placing it on her stomach.

“No breaks as far as I can see. I’ll wrap it anyway—you might have sprained it.”