I ask the doorman for a report, since he’s Al’s man, and thinking my wife is trying to kill me has me a little paranoid. Her bodyguard came with her. He’s on my payroll now, but he might retain ties and loyalties to the Pomponio’s. After hearing the doorman confirm the details Eliza’s bodyguard already gave, I head upstairs.
fourteen
Eliza
The door of our penthouse swings open, and King stands there with a shirt tied around his shoulder and a limp when he takes a step inside. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what happened. Someone shot him, and I should be used to that, living the life I do. Iamused to it. But I’m suddenly, horribly ashamed. This is my husband. He could have died. And he was never anything to me but someone to fuck with, to push his buttons and see if he’d snap. I don’t know the first thing about him. I never tried. Our marriage has been nothing but a game to me.
“King,” I say, going to him and pushing the door closed behind him. “Let me look at that.”
To my surprise, he jerks away when I try to touch him. “What did you do?” he asks, his voice harsh and cold.
“Me?” I recoil, my mind racing through possibilities.
“I asked you to talk to your father,” he grits out. “What did you tell him, Eliza?”
“What are you talking about?” I ask. “I did call him. We talked about the honeymoon and the apartment, and he said you were meeting atJean-Jean…”
King stares into my eyes with so much hatred it makes me shrink inside. “And then his men fucking shot me,” he says. “I had to fucking kill someone today, Eliza. Do you know what that feels like? Do you think I like doing this shit? No, but I do it because I’m your fucking husband, and that’s what’s expected of me. It’s my fucking job. And it’s your job to be my wife, not get me fucking killed.”
I nod mutely, not daring to speak. His fury makes me tremble all the way to my core. He vibrates with it, with rage and danger, a force I can’t begin to fight. I know he’s in pain, and the sooner he’s out of it, the sooner he’ll be thinking clearly.
Before I have a chance to figure out a response, he pushes past me and limps into the bedroom. I hear him cursing, and maybe I should be afraid, but I’ve done this shit too many times. I sigh and head into the room after him.
“Let me look at your injuries,” I say.
“Oh, now you fucking care?” he snaps, kicking his shoes off and pushing them under the edge of the bed.
“I know you’re in pain,” I say. “So just let me look.”
“I’ll take care of it,” he grits out. With that, he goes into the bathroom and closes the door in my face.
Yeah, well, fuck him, too.
I wish I could walk away, but some part of me knows I can’t. I’m bound to this stubborn asshole forever. I try the door, but it’s locked.
“Come on, King. I didn’t tell my dad to put a hit on you,” I say. “I told him you were fine on the honeymoon, and that everything was good with us.”
He’s quiet for a minute, though I can hear him rummaging in the drawers. “Why would you say that?” he asks at last.
“Because that’s what we said we were going to tell people,” I remind him. “I know there’s no way out of this, King. I know we have to be married and have a baby. So, tell me what happened, and I can help you.”
“I don’t need help,” he says. “It’s just a scratch.”
I roll my eyes. Men and their pride.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll make coffee.”
I turn and walk away, knowing he’ll have to give in sooner or later. That, or his pride will kill him when he bleeds to death.
Then would I be free?
I’m ashamed at the thought, but I follow it, anyway. It hasn’t been long enough for me to play grieving widow. Dad would just marry me off to someone else, and that someone might not be as understanding as King. I got lucky with him. I should have shown him that this week instead of clinging to this stupid idea of my independence when he’s not even trying to stop me from having that. Old habits die hard, I guess. I spent my whole life thinking marriage was a trap. That doesn’t go away overnight.
That, or what happened in Bora Bora seems too good to be true, so good it can’t be real. I was sure he’d change his mind once we got home, and I had to make sure he didn’t. And now all I’ve made sure of is that he thinks I hate him enough to get him killed.
Good one, Eliza.
When I finish making coffee, I go back into the bedroom. King is sitting on the edge of the bed in a pair of boxer shorts. He’s taped a bandage on his shoulder, but blood is already soaking through. He’s looking down at his thigh, where a nasty hole is leaking blood.