Page 116 of A Vicious Love

Her mood.

Her safety.

Her collar.

Especially the fucking collar. I looked toward the hallway where the collar cabinet had been built into the wall in the main bedroom wing.

An actual cabinet.

Climate controlled.

Rosewood-lined.

Lit from within.

Marcel had planned an entire section of his house around jewelry his wife wore at her throat because apparently dignity died the moment a Crow man married.

I would rather be shot.

Twice.

The cabinet held too many fucking choices. Emmie mainly wore one of the rose-gold collar every day. That one opened beneath Marcel’s thumbprint and sat close against her throat. Subtle enough for society. Obvious enough for anyone who understood Crow houses.

Marcel could not leave it alone. His fingers found it constantly. He touched the metal the way other men checked weapons.

Obsession.

Utterly revolting.

“I will never live in a house designed around a collar cabinet,” I said.

Harrison looked toward the hallway. “I think the herb garden bothers you more.”

“The herb garden is a crime scene.”

“They’re recovering,” Marcel said absently.

I looked through the glass doors at the dead basil.

“From death?”

He ignored that too.

I took the whiskey Harrison poured and sat in one of the armchairs facing the ocean. The chair was too comfortable. Emmie had chosen it, obviously. Nothing in Marcel’s house allowed a man to feel appropriately miserable.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” I said.

“Because Marcel summoned us,” Harrison replied.

“I didn’t summon anyone,” Marcel said.

“You sent six messages in ten minutes.”

“That was to ask whether either of you had spoken to Sienna.”

I took a drink.

“No.”