Page 114 of Vicious Kingdom

My wife gave me a funny look but obliged. “Where are we going?”

“Over here,” I evaded. “Tell me, what’s behind that jewel story?”

“Oh.” Annaliese laughed. “Margaret is broke. She bribed the designer to replace Janet’s diamonds with fakes, paid him with some of the stones, and then paid her debts with the others.”

“And kept a few for herself?” I led my wife out of the banquet hall and to the women’s room.

“Exactly.”

I pushed inside. “Anyone in here?”

When no one answered, I held the door open for Annaliese. She peered inside, then shot a look over her shoulder. “Curiouser and curiouser, Mr. Baldwin. What will wagging tongues say about you sneaking in here with me?”

Fuck them.

The moment the door closed, I reached for her. While my touch was gentle, it still made Annaliese clench her jaw and draw in a tight breath.

Spinning her around, I tugged at the zipper on the back of her dress.

“Leo! Don’t,” she gasped, pulling away.

“Why?” My touch trailed up to cup her chin, so she was forced to look at me.

She swallowed hard. “If we’re going to do something scandalous, we should keep our clothes on. You know? So we aren’t caught naked?”

“Scared to show off for the jackals?” I rubbed my thumb on her chin, waiting for the lie.

“No,” she breathed. “But….”

I wrapped an arm around her waist, keeping her close. The teeth clicked as I drew down the fastening.

“Leo, please….” Desperation choked her voice.

My wife was keeping yet another secret.

The sight of her back sent a bolt of white-hot rage through me. Angry bruises, the kind I wore after a mixed martial arts fight, stained her skin.

I peeled the dress off her shoulders.

She didn’t resist, but her whole body trembled.

Her front was worse.

Purple splotches marred her ribs, spreading like spilled ink across her sun-kissed skin. Finger-shaped marks wrapped around her upper arms, yellow-green where they were healing, deep plum where they were fresh. Across her collarbone, an angry red welt had formed, and beneath her breast, a constellation of contusions bloomed in various stages of healing—some faded to a sickly yellow, others still swollen and dark as midnight.

“Annaliese.” My voice was barely a whisper, rage making my vision blur at the edges.

She shifted from foot to foot, but didn’t avoid my stare, locking eyes with my reflection in the mirror. Her arms crossed over her chest in a futile attempt to hide the evidence.

“Who did this to you?” I reached out, hovering my fingers over a particularly vicious mark along her ribcage without touching it.

“It’s nothing,” she muttered. “You should see the other guy.”

Her attempted quip fell flat.

“I’m going to be needing a name, wife.” I caged her against the counter, as if my body could shield her from what had already transpired.

She shook her head.