“Why’d you agree to it?” I shouldn’t ask. Shouldn’t care. But none of this adds up. Her own mother said she’s not the impulsive type, and she’s made it clear she isn’t interested in being like the other mafia wives. So, what the fuck is in this for her, besides a little protection?
It’s not like she couldn’t just disappear. Kieran would go after her father for sure at that point, and the others he owes money to would just follow suit.
So, what’s keeping her here, tied to me?
Her eyes stay trained on the window, but I don’t miss the way they glaze over, the way her throat bobs with a thick swallow. Something isn’t right with her, but I don’t have time to figure out what exactly, because, in the next second, Benny pulls into my—our—driveway, announcing our arrival, pulling her from the conversation entirely.
The gray stone walls on the exterior of the restored Victorian mansion look like every other house on the Lake Koselomal strip. They’re homes for a few of the uber-elite, heavily entrenched by iron fencing and white cedar trees, overlooking a lake no one ever swims in.
Benny opens the car door for Caroline and helps her out. The urge to make a cutting remark about how easily she accepts help from him briefly scalds my tongue, but I tamp it down at the sheer look of wonder taking over her face. She peers up at the house like it’s a castle, and she’s a princess finally moving in.
A foreign sensation blossoms within me at the realization that I want her face to stay that way forever—pure, angelic, unfettered. Like all her past ghosts and sins are behind her, forgotten.
“Thisis your house?” A wide grin breaks out, showcasing her perfect white teeth.
I shrug, making my way up the stone front walk. “Yours, as well, now.”
“Holy shit.” She stands in the roundabout driveway for a few more seconds, then scrambles to catch up as I step onto the porch. “It’s gorgeous. Like something out of a fairytale.”
My eyebrows scrunch together. What kind of fairytales are you reading?
Choosing not to burst her bubble, I key in the door code and wait for it to unlock. The entire house has an intricate security system and an armed guard stationed outside at all times. Although, with Caroline’s arrival I may have to take on a second one, since Benny goes where I do, and I’m sure as hell not bringing her to the club.
Stepping inside, I share a nod with Benny that lets him know to stay outside and watch as my wife—mywife—gazes around at the tall ceilings, the abstract paintings on some of the walls, the clean and barely used furniture. The white of my home against the white of her dress makes her look like the spring goddess she is, innocence just waiting for the stain of destruction.
I’ve never liked the lack of color; it’s always felt like a personal dig from the interior decorator—like she knew my secrets and filled my home accordingly.
The white marble flooring and the quartz countertops, theViscayafurniture with all its gold borders and dark woods and white velvets, make the house feel like a coffin, a lonely shell reflective of the life within.
Yet, she gazes around as if she’s never seen anything more beautiful.
A small smile plays on my mouth as I watch her, but it disappears as my gaze drops to her neck. She unwinds the scarf, unaware of my inspection, and drapes it over one of the sofas. Trailing her fingers along the soft material, she turns, finally facing me.
If she notices the hard set of my jaw, she doesn’t say anything. “This is beautiful.”
Again, I shrug, because I’m not really sure what else to do here. I don’t know what happens after this. All I can think of is finding out who put their hands on her and stuffing my fist down their throat.
“I can’t imagine it’s that different from your parents’ house.” The Harrisons live in the only gated community on the other side of town, situated just behind the mayor’s mansion.
She scoffs, pushing a curl behind her ear. “It’s hardly a home, first of all. And second, houses in Locust Grove are just cookie-cutter shacks hiding tragedy. They’re not places for people to live or raise families. Not like this. There are so many possibilities here.”
Taking a step closer, I gaze down at her, inhaling her rich, fruity-yet-floral scent, wishing I could commit it to memory. Maybe even bottle it, keep it for the nights she inevitably refuses to warm my bed. “What tragedy happened at your house, Caroline?”
Her blue eyes meet mine, and I swear I want nothing more in this moment than to lose myself in their depths. The sadness within is endless, a sea of untethered, repressed memories nearly mirroring my own.
She offers me a tight smile, but nothing else.
An invisible force draws me even closer until our body heat mixes together, and I can’t tell where mine ends, and hers begins. Heat rises to my neck as her perfume envelops me, and I bring my hand to her throat, sweeping over her broken skin with my fingertips. Leaning against my touch, her eyes drift closed like she feels safe here.
With me.
When she absolutely shouldn’t.
When all I can think about is fucking devouring her, crawling inside her skin and stitching myself into the walls of her being, grinding myself into dust and sprinkling it on her bones. All the ways I could destroy her, leave my mark on her.
“Fuck,” I breathe, my heart swelling and shattering, like the tide pulling back and crashing against the shore. Her eyes open, and she stares up at me from hooded lashes, daring me to take her.
Taste her.