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Jesus Christ.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” I growl, “but I have a guest, and I need my tools.”

To be more specific, I have a weeping, bleeding, piss-soaked child molester hanging from the hook in my kill room.

He frowns. “What guest?”

“Just a guest,” I hiss through clenched teeth.

His brow furrows even deeper. “The fuck sort of guest do you mean?” he growls in a dangerously low tone that rumbles through my core.

Suddenly, a grin twists my lips.

“Uh-oh,” I needle him. “Is that jealousy I smell?”

Damiano rolls his eyes. “If you’re smelling anything, it’s burnt toast. Because that’s a sign of a stroke. And a stroke is the only logical reason I can come up with for you imagining I'd feel jealousy of any kind as it pertains to you.”

I scowl. “A simple no would’ve worked. But sure, be a big shit-weasel about it.”

“Are you or are you not entertaining a male guest.”

Why is he being so weird?

Whatever. This seems like a fantastic opportunity to screw with him.

I shrug. “I am.”

Damiano’s eyes flash viciously.

“Ahah!” I snap a bit too loud, jabbing a finger in his face. “That is jealousy.”

“No, it’s⁠—”

“It so is!” I crow. Then I make a kissy face at him. “Are you jealous of my male guest, Lamiano? Wondering about all the things I might go back and do with⁠—”

In the blink of an eye, three things happen. One, Damiano jumps to his feet in a nanosecond. Two, my eyes fly wide and a throb of heat coils low in my belly as his hand wraps around my throat.

And three?

Three is the worst one.

I get wet.

Immediately.

“I’m not jealous, Bella,” he growls with the snarling, aggressive tone of someone who is insanely jealous. “But like it or not, we’re married.” He leans closer. “You’re my wife.”

I’m pretty sure the zapping sensation in my core followed by the flush of heat rippling over my skin and the electric way my nipples tighten is a sign of something serious. Maybe cancer?

I should get that checked.

My pulse thuds against his fingertips.

“I’m going to ask you one more time,” he growls. “Who the fuck is your⁠—”

“A target, okay!”

I snap the words almost like a final gasp for air before I utterly sink into him at the dizzyingly possessive way he just grabbed my throat and called me his wife.