I lean over her, my shadow enveloping her entirely. "I don’t get to decide that," I say, and the words taste bitter and true. "You made this bed. All I ever wanted was a wife who could keep up with me. Instead you gave me a fraud."
She opens her eyes. They glint with a dangerous new resolve—a dare, even now, at the edge of her own destruction. "Maybe you deserved a fraud," she says. "Maybe you should look at why a real Frances would rather run than marry you."
For a long, electric moment, neither of us moves. The tension vibrates between us, an invisible wire pulled to the point of snapping. I find that I want to reach for her throat again. I want to squeeze until the truth and the lies fizz out together, until there’s nothing but silence.
But the universe, in its infinite stupidity, chooses this moment to intervene.
The curtain to the alcove swishes open behind me, and some inebriated fool stumbles in.
"Well, well," the voice says. "Alessandro Rosetti hiding his wife at her first major social event?"
Blair Wollstonecraft materializes from behind the silk drapes, senator's son smile painted on his prep school face. He blathers on about something banal while my wife gets to her feet, wiping the smeared makeup from her face. His hand lands onmy wife's arm before I can stop him, fingers curling around her bare skin.
"You look upset, Frances," he says, deliberately ignoring me. "Why don't we get you a drink? Or better yet, share a dance while Alessandro's busy with… whatever this is."
Emma… I can't think of her as Frances anymore… flinches at his touch. That small movement, that instinctive recoil from another man's hands, makes something primitive roar to life in my chest.
"Take your hand off my wife." I use the low voice that's made grown men piss themselves.
Blair's smile widens. "Come now, we're all friends here. I'm sure Frances would enjoy…"
I move before the thought completes. My hand wraps around his wrist, applying precise pressure until he releases Emma with a yelp. Then I'm dragging him away from the alcove, through a door, straight into the men's bathroom.
Marble and gold fixtures gleam under harsh lighting as I lock the door behind us. The smell of expensive cologne can't mask the terror-sweat already beading on his forehead.
"What the fuck, Rosetti…"
My fist connects with his stomach, dropping him to his knees on Italian tile. He gasps, trying to catch his breath, making wet choking sounds that echo off the walls. I grab his hand, the one that touched her, and spread his fingers against the marble floor.
"Let me explain something about ownership," I say conversationally, positioning his index finger. "When something belongs to me, it's mine absolutely."
The finger snaps with a sound like a pencil breaking. His scream echoes off marble, high and pathetic.
"That's one." I move to the middle finger, letting him see it coming. "My wife isn't available for drinks, dances, or whatever else your pathetic mind imagined."
Another snap. The bone splits through skin this time, blood speckling the white marble.
"Two." The ring finger next, taking my time. "You don't look at her. You don't speak to her."
The crack is wetter this time. He's sobbing now, snot running down his face.
"Three." I save the pinky for last, letting him anticipate it. "And you absolutely never fucking touch her again."
The final break is almost anticlimactic. Blair Wollstonecraft crumples on the bathroom floor, cradling his ruined hand.
"Next time," I say, stepping over him to wash my hands, watching the pink water swirl down the drain, "I take the whole arm. Then I start on your cock."
When I exit the bathroom, Emma's waiting in the hallway. She must have followed us, must have heard everything through the door: the screams, the sound of bones breaking, my promises of future violence. I expect horror, disgust, fear at witnessing what I really am.
Instead, she looks at me like she's never seen me before. Her pupils are blown wide, chest rising and falling rapidly, and I can smell it: her arousal mixing with her perfume. She's wet from watching me destroy a man for touching her.
"You broke his fingers," she says softly, voice thick with something dark. "For touching me."
"I'd break more than that." I pull her against me, pressing her back against the wall. My cock is hard against her stomach, and I watch her pupils dilate further. "Feel that? That's what defending you does to me. And judging by how your thighs just clenched, you're just as affected."
She doesn't deny it. Can't, when her body tells me everything: the flush spreading down her throat, the way her breath catches, how she unconsciously arches toward me.
I lean down, lips brushing her ear. "Nobody touches you except me, wife. I don't care how much you fucking love them."
