I don’t look at him while I walk out of the kitchen, though I sense his gaze all over my back, burning into my every stride.
I head straight for the farthest bathroom in the penthouse and close the door behind me.
Once I’ve stripped, I step beneath the hot spray and stand there, letting the water pound against my shoulders until the steam thickens the air and blurs the edges of my frustration.
When I close my eyes, Damien surfaces in my thoughts.
The warmth of him after nights when my nerves were still buzzing from jobs I couldn’t talk about. Sometimes the sex between us was urgent and hungry. Other times it was just me going through the motions.
And maybe I mistook what we had for love.
A place where safety and peace flowed as a steady rhythm that didn’t demand blood and violence.
I squeeze shampoo onto my hand and lather it in my hair, wondering if Damien was the one.
Or had he simply gifted me a resting place after I’d done bad things to bad people.
That thought scares me, because if I can’t tell the difference between comfort and love, then what does that say about me?
Water rinses the suds, and I watch them swirldown the plughole.
While I’m lost in thought, the bathroom door opens and Bronx strolls inside.
“Why the fuck are you stalking me?” I snap, wiping a circle through the steam so I can see him properly.
It doesn’t help that he’s still half dressed, toothbrush in his mouth, moving with cocky confidence. He spits into the sink and rinses, completely unbothered.
“Relax, princess. The glass is fogged. I can’t see anything.”
“Jesus, Bronx,” I hiss. “That’s not my point.”
He turns toward me, and in the mirror I catch the reflection of the ink spread across his back, dark lines spreading over muscle as he leans against the vanity.
There’s a slow smile on his face because the asshole knows he’s getting under my skin.
“Then what is the point?” he asks, tone lazy. “You’re my wife. Shared spaces come with the territory. If you refuse to use the en-suite in our bedroom, I’ll join you in this one.”
Heat flashes up my spine. I thump my palm against the glass.
“I will end you.”
He studies me through the steam for a beat, eyes steady, before taking the toothbrush out of his mouth.
“Let’s do it,” he says, winking. “I’d love to wrestle my naked, wet wife on the bathroom floor. Promise me you won’t hold back.”
Something in his grin snaps the last thread of my patience.
“Try me then, Bronx.” I shove the shower door open and step out.
Water streams down my skin, pooling at my toes, steam curling around the room.
I don’t reach for a towel to cover myself. Rather, I square my shoulders, hitch my chin higher, and pad barefoot towards him.
“You think this is a joke?” I ask, slotting my hands on my hips. “You think because we signed a silly piece of paper you get to swagger in here and play the dominant husband?”
I stop inches from him and stare right into his fucking mesmerising eyes.
“I was trained to kill men like you,” I continue, keeping tone deadly calm. “Cocky. Distracted. Overconfident bastards.”
