Page 82 of The Carnage We Keep

When my scrounging through the kitchen only turns up a few boring kitchen knives, a single meat tenderizer, and a regular-ass pair of scissors, I admit that I need to break my vow of silence when it comes to my motherfucker of a husband.

A line creases Damiano’s brow when I slam my hands on the table he’s sitting at in Ravencroft Library. My temper sparks hotter when he slowly raises his gaze to my glaring one and smiles.

“Yes?”

My eyes narrow. His grin widens.

“Ooooh, I see the problem,” he says, a glint in his eyes. “Someone’s mad and wants to hurl insults at me. But someone is also coming to the unfortunate realization that satisfying that urge is going to clash with her promise never to speak to me again.” He clucks his teeth. “What a predicament⁠—”

“Give me my shit back,” I snap.

Damiano calmly sets down the book he was reading, laces his fingers behind his head, and leans back in his chair thoughtfully.

“You’re angry.”

“Stealing from me has a way of doing that,” I grumble.

Damiano sighs. “I don’t know if that’s it, though. I took your weapons and torture devices—which, to be honest, I’d probably categorize more as a public service than theft—almost two weeks ago. This is a weirdly delayed reaction.”

I grind my teeth. “My stuff,” I snarl. “I want it back. Now.”

“Honestly, it makes me wonder if it’s really the knives that have you so upset.”

Visions of me yanking the lamp off the table, wrapping the cord around Damiano’s neck and yanking it tight until his eyes pop out fill my head. Then they immediately morph into a vision where he breaks free, muscles straining and veins bulging, then uses the cord to bind my wrists and bend me over the table so he can flip my skirt up, cut my panties off, and rail me until⁠—

Goddamn shit fuck.

I swallow back my lust as I glare extra hard at him. “You’re suggesting there’s another reason I’d be pissed at you?”

“Well,” he sighs. “Yeah.”

I roll my eyes. “Such as?”

“You sure you want to know?”

“Holy fuck,” I groan. “I swear to God⁠—”

“Sexual frustration.”

I almost choke on my tongue. Then I remind myself that Damiano is not a fucking mind-reader.

“What?” I snap.

He smiles at me. “I mean, we’ve been married a week⁠—”

“Lower your voice,” I hiss.

Damiano chuckles and glances around the empty study room. “A little touchy, are we?” He smirks. “Pun intended?”

I roll my eyes. “I want my shit back. Is that going to happen, or am I wasting my time?”

His brow furrows. “What’s the urgency?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Wanting to be in possession of my stuff?” I mutter.

Damiano says nothing as he calmly drums his thick fingers on the table.

Thick fingers that I may or may not immediately picture wrapping around my throat as he feeds me his⁠—