So here I was, throwing knives at my husband’s imaginary face before breakfast like some heartsick girl who’d caught her boyfriend in bed with her high school rival.
Trying to convince myself our marriage was strategy, not a fairy tale.
A business contract, not a vow of fucking celibacy.
Because watching him with Valeria had torn something hot and ugly open inside me, like a big, gaping wound I couldn’t stitch closed, no matter how many knives I threw or how many times I told myself none of this mattered.
I yanked a knife from the wall, stepped back, and threw again. This one landed low, right in between his legs.
“Perfect,” I muttered under my breath. “If I cut off your cock, maybe that bitch won’t want you at all.”
The door behind me opened with a delicate rush of air.
I didn’t turn. “Luca, if you’re here to lecture me before I’ve had a drop of caffeine, I swear to every god listening?—”
“It’s not Luca.” Dante’s deep, raspy voice slid through me, familiar and unwelcome and leaving me infuriatingly bothered. “Nice shot by the way. Dare I ask who you are thinking about emasculating?”
“Guess.” I pulled another knife off the shelf and let the blade hang loosely from my fingers. Probably a mistake, given my temper, but I liked that worried set to Dante’s brow. “You might even get the answer right.”
A blinding burn of rage poured through me. I was caught in the middle of a raging storm, helpless as the winds buffeted me, unable to catch my breath or find my footing.
“You’ve been up here awhile,” he said gently, refusing to take the bait. “The neighbors are going to complain about all the noise.”
“The neighbors are superstitious mortals who think this building is haunted,” I retorted. “Tell them to file a fucking complaint with the ghost police.”
The morning light slanted through the high windows, catching on the strong planes of his forearms and his scarred knuckles. Barefoot, in a worn black t-shirt and loose training pants, hair long and tousled, Dante looked like he just rolled out of bed.
Except I knew for a fact he’d been up all night, pacing.
His gaze flicked to the knives embedded in the wall, the rough, sloppy charcoal-drawn face. One eyebrow rose. “Is that supposed to be me?”
I shrugged a shoulder. “I needed proper motivation this morning.”
“Motivation is seldom your problem.” He studied the knife lodged in the drawn throat, then the one sticking out between the dummy’s legs. “You’re drifting a little low. If you really wanted me dead, you’d go for the eye.”
“Maybe I don’t want you dead right away,” I countered. “Maybe I want you tosuffer.”
Silence stretched until the tension became uncomfortable for us both.
His wild, oceanic gaze pinned me down. Waiting. With the patience of a fucking monk.
My fury was something happening outside of myself, like a breathing, living thing of uncontrollable power. If this broken, jagged feeling was the other side of love, then I didn’twantto know what love was, because this… this hurt too fucking bad.
“We need to talk about last night,” he said finally, breaking first.
“No,” I shook my head and backed away. “We absolutely don’t.”
“Emberline—”
The knife left my hand before I even realized I’d released it, singing through the cold air before burying itself dead center in his left eye—the painted one—the entire wall shuddering from the force.
“There,” I pivoted toward him on my heel. “Was that what you meant?”
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t relinquish a single inch. “If you’re done trying to kill pretend me, maybe you could listen to what I have to say.”
“Oh, I heard plenty last night,” I snapped. “Sawplenty last night, with my own two eyes, so please, don’t disrespect me or my intelligence by pretending this was all a misunderstanding. Because somewhere between the blackmail and the toasts to our happiness, I also got the distinct impression you didn’t mind so much having your ex-lover draped over you like a fucking second skin.”
Gods, just stop blathering already, Emberline.
