Mrs. Consele. My wife.
The thought slid down my spine like ice, but somehow it warmed me too. I hated how good it sounded every time I said it aloud this morning, like I was trying to carve it into my bones. I didn’t know what the hell it meant yet, but it felt realer than it should.
She didn’t look like she’d be waking up anytime soon, so I set my coffee mug down on the table behind me and pushed up to go take a shower.
The second I moved, something shifted.
She stirred again, slower this time, then blinked. Her eyes fluttered open and landed right on me. And in that instant, it didn’t matter what she remembered or didn’t. Because I felt it—the weight of her gaze. The question in it. The pull. And suddenly, I wasn’t so sure which of us was more awake.
“Do you always watch women sleep?” Her voice was hoarse, cracked like gravel, like it scraped its way out of her throat.
“Good morning to you, too, princess.” I didn’t hide the sarcasm. I was too damn tired to sugarcoat anything.
She sat up, wincing as the motion caught her off guard. Blonde hair exploded around her face like she’d gone twelve rounds with her pillow. “Why’d you let me drink so much?” She rubbed at her temples, her tone accusatory.
“I didn’t.” I pointed to my chest. “You told the bartender it was our wedding day and to keep ‘em coming. He just followed orders. Yours.”
“So you didn’t stop him?” She narrowed her eyes. “What a stand-up husband. Let me guess—you thought you’d get lucky on our wedding night?”
“I don’t fuck corpses.” That stopped her. Her eyes blinked, slow, processing. The silence between us thickened.
“I did try to cut you off. But by then, you were already gone. You hold your liquor too well—it tricked me. You blacked out the second we hit the car.”
She looked away, jaw clenching. “Doesn’t mean you didn’t take advantage of me.”
The words didn’t slap—they sliced. Cold and deliberate. I stared at her, hard. Her eyes were flat, unreadable. Either she was testing me, or she really thought I was the kind of guy who could cross that line. What kind of men had she let close?
“Do you even remember last night?” I asked, watching her like I was waiting for her to lie.
“Yeah, I remember we got hitched.” She held up her left hand, flashing the ring like a middle finger.
“No. After that.”
She squinted, trying to focus through the hangover. “Elvis murdered the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll, you ordered a burger with tomatoes—I remember hating that. Then we walked to the hotel, found a bar, and kept drinking… After that, it’s fuzzy.”
“You’re saying you wouldn’t remember if we had sex?”
She yawned, stretched like a damn cat, unbothered. “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying.”
I just stared. Stunned. Not because of what she said, but how she said it—like it wasn’t a big deal. Like, blacking out with a stranger wasn’t terrifying. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t care.
“You do realize you have a drinking problem, right?”
She rolled her eyes like I told her water was wet. “So what? You gonna give me the husband ultimatum? Clean up or I walk?”
“No. I’m telling you if you keep drinking like that, your liver’s gonna rot, your looks’ll fade, and you’ll be lucky if it’s just your health that goes to shit.”
“Oh, perfect. A father figure, too. What a package deal.”
I exhaled sharply. “Look—I’m not trying to start a war, but someone else could’ve been if I hadn’t been with you last night. You know that. And for someone who acts like she hates men, you’d think you’d try harder not to hand them your power on a silver platter.”
She let out a dark laugh. “Yeah, ‘cause that always stops men from doing whatever the hell they want.”
Jesus. She didn’t just hate men—she didn’t trust them. Not an ounce.
I shook my head and pivoted. “We need to check out by noon. Take a shower, get dressed. I’ll meet you in the lobby. We’ll get food, go over some ground rules, and figure this thing out.”
“So romantic, soldier,” she muttered, dragging herself out of bed.
