I stand and stalk around the other chair again, keeping the piece of furniture between us. “It’s simple. You hold up your end of the deal, and we’re fine. If you intend to run the moment you gain any freedom, I’ll keep you chained to my bed like a pet.”
She sobs, and I don’t let it fracture this anger I’m gathering around me like a shield. I’ve never needed a shield. Not until her. She does something to me, twists me up until all I can think about is laying my claim into her skin over and over again.
“Why are you saying these things?” she whispers.
This time, I do throw the chair. I shove it over and out of my way to get to her easier. Taking her arms in my grip, I shake her. “When I woke up a couple of days ago, I thought I knew my place in the world. And then I came home to an empty penthouse, and my first thought was that someone betrayed me and took you. It didn’t occur to me you were the one who shoved that knife into my back. And then tonight you call me, asking for help, and I provide it. All I want in return are answers…and you can’t even give me that.”
Her only response is to hang her head. Heavy tears beat against her bloodstained jeans in dark dots.
I push her back into the chair again, disgusted. She’d been tortured and left for dead by her fiancé and wasn’t this useless afterward. Why is she now? What’s happened that she’s so scared of me, or of something she’s not telling me?
The remaining alcohol in my system is making me tired, but I can’t sleep, not while knowing she could walk out that door in the middle of the night.
I stalk around the room, needing to burn off some of this anger before I do something I’ll regret. “Why are you just sitting there crying? Why aren’t you defending yourself? Yelling at me? Screaming? Anything!” I roar.
She flinches but says nothing. Not a single word to corral or condemn me.
Maybe that hurts most of all? She’s decided I’m not worth fighting for, that what we have isn’t worth fighting for. But why? I hate that I don’t have the answers, and I hate she won’t give them to me. Every heartbeat of silence only fuels my rage higher.
This time when I pass the decorative table against the wall, I swipe the top with my arm, bringing the glass and items to the floor in a glittering pile of rubble. None of it matters. I keep my eyes locked on her, looking for a response. Anything other than the crying and the shaking…please.
I walk over the broken pieces to the bedside table and toss the crystal lamp against the wall near her chair. This time, there’s not even a flinch. She keeps her hands pressed between her thighs with her chin tucked as tears continue to stream down her face. It’s like she’s completely alone, and I don’t exist on her radar at all.
“Fucking do something!” I yell.
Nothing. Not even a blip of movement from her.
Well. If she won’t defend herself or show me any kind of reaction, fine. At the very least, I’ll have the respect I’m owed as her husband and as the head of the Doubeck family.
I stand taller, straighten my shirt, and smooth back my hair with both hands. It needs more than I can do for it now to keep it in place, but it doesn’t matter when she’s not even looking at me.
As I walk back across the room, the glass crunches under my shoes, grinding into the hardwood. I stop beside her chair and place my hand on its back. “You’re disappointing me, Valentina. I don’t like to be disappointed. You belong to me, and I’m going to ensure the entire world knows it. That way”—I crouch beside the chair, grabbing a piece of broken glass that had skittered near her feet—“if you decide to leave me again, there’s not a soul around who won’t immediately dump you right back on my doorstep.”
She’s shaking again, not just her hands but her whole body.
I drop to my knees and turn her chair to face me, the glass cutting into my palm as I move her. Red dots drip to the floor, and her eyes lock on them, staring, her mouth slack. For a moment, she’s gone, and I know—God, I know—she’s seeing her father’s death again. Over and over in her mind. Sometimes, I still have nightmares about my own father’s death. But it won’t stop me from shaking her awake, demanding the submission she should already be giving me.
“Valentina,” I snap. “Focus, Angel.” I raise the glass, its glossy red edge sharp and already stained.