The Skull King (Skull 1)

Case pushed through the double doors wearing black jeans and a black t-shirt. He had drops of alfredo on his clothing and skin because he must have forgotten to put on his apron. A slight look of surprise entered his gaze when he saw me. “Didn’t know you were stopping by.”

“Do I need to ask my older brother if I can visit him?”

“No. Because if you did, I would always say no.”

I swatted his arm playfully. “How’s it going over here?”

“Same as usual. Business is good. But do you really care? Or do you just want free food?”

I rolled my eyes. “No, I don’t just want free food. But…if you just made some pasta, I’ll eat it.”

Case rolled his eyes. “And the truth comes out. Let’s go.” He led me out of the pasta room and into the back area where they had a dining table near the fireplace. The rest of the factory was exactly as someone would imagine it, lots of machines with people working to prepare, package, and label the pasta.

Case prepared a plate of fettuccini alfredo for me and placed it on the dining table. “Red or white?”

It was only noon, but it was never too early to drink for our family. “Red.”

He poured me a glass and left the bottle behind, knowing I would want more.

I took a seat and started to eat. “Lucian said I’m gaining weight, but I really don’t care.” I stabbed the pasta, twirled it around in my spoon, and then placed it into my mouth.

Case sat beside me with his papers gathered around. He handled all the bookkeeping for the business, doing the overhead expenses and the payroll. My younger brother, Dirk, was responsible for shipments and factory maintenance. Case had never had a typical office like most people did. He liked to work at the table out in the open—just the way my father had. He didn’t respond to my comment about Lucian. He never talked about my husband, asked about him, or even said his name. He had been strongly against my decision to marry Lucian, and to this day, he was still pissed about it—although I couldn’t blame him.

“How are you guys?” I asked, talking in between bites.

“Nothing new.” He kept working, the strong and silent type. He was just like Father, saying very little, even when asked a direct question. He looked a lot like my father did when he was young. He had that dark, thick hair, green eyes similar to mine, and classically handsome Italian looks. Growing up, all my friends liked him. They liked Dirk too, but since Case was the older one, the girls went crazy for him.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

He didn’t bother answering the question at all.

“Case, you’re always such pleasant company,” I said sarcastically.

“I don’t want to talk about my personal life. I’ve already told you that.”

“Alright, then what do you want to talk about?”

“Nothing, honestly.” He continued with his paperwork.

I didn’t take his standoffish attitude personally because I knew he loved me, but ever since I’d gotten married a year ago, our relationship had changed. He was disappointed in me for the decision I’d made, and he’d never gotten over it. He couldn’t swallow his anger and leave it in the past. He continually wanted me to know he was angry. “You really need to let it go, Case. It’s done. We need to move on.”

He stopped filling out his paperwork and stared at the table before he turned to meet my gaze. He dropped the pencil, sat back, and gave me a glare so terrifying, it reminded me of my father—haunting me from the grave. “It’s done? We need to move on? You’re married to a psychopath—”

“He’s not that bad.”

“You’re defending him now?”

“Not at all. But he’s not a psychopath. He treats me well.”

“He forced you to marry him. How does that not make him a psychopath? He was obsessed with you and wanted to collect you like a trophy or a piece of jewelry.”

“Aren’t all men like that?” I countered. “Wanting a trophy wife to show off?”

“Not the same thing, and you know it.”

“Well, there’s nothing I can do about it now. You need to accept it—and let it go.”

He looked down at the table and clenched his jaw, like he didn’t know how to channel his rage anymore. “You did it to save that asshole—”

“Let’s not go there, alright?” I raised my hand and ignored my pasta because my appetite was gone. “I don’t want to talk about him. I don’t want to talk about what happened ever again. I suffer enough for my mistake every single day. There’s nothing you can do or say to make me feel worse. Seeing your disappointment every time I look at you just…breaks my heart all over again. It makes me suffer over and over. So just stop punishing me, alright?” I couldn’t shed a single tear because I’d shed enough already. Now I was numb to the pain, to the heartbreak. It was the same thing as when you saw loved ones at a funeral. The family of the deceased didn’t cry because they’d been crying every single day since they’d lost that special person. Their eyes ran dry, and there was nothing left to give. That was exactly how I felt.