Pushing the doors open, I wandered into the room. It was gorgeously designed with off-white floors and beige walls covered with fantastic art. A balcony bled into an elaborated reading area and an office space with a strategic view of the back garden.
I noticed another set of closed doors. The bathroom. I walked over to them.
I was about to call his name again when I heard it. Pounding. A different kind of thrashing. Nothing like the pounding that happened downstairs, in the kitchen, with both of us sweaty and angry and desperate.
It sounded like a head smacking against the wall rhythmically. Labored breaths seeped from the crack under the doors.
Pressing my forehead to one of the doors, I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath.
“I’m sorry I pushed you,” I croaked. And I was. But I was also thrilled that I’d managed to pull something out of him that wasn’t indifference.
There was no answer.
“Would you like me to get you a glass of water? Maybe call Petar?”
The tap-tap-tap stopped. A second later came his voice.
“Leave.”
“I don’t want to leave like this.” I wringed my fingers in my lap. “Your friends are about to be here, and I—”
“Leave!” he roared like a beast.
Taking a step back, I glared at the closed doors. In the eight years I’d known my husband, he’d never raised his voice to anyone. Not even once.
He threw the doors open, stalking outside, looking like the devil himself. His eyes were dark and hard, the snarl on his face making chills roll down my spine. He had a busted lip, blood gushing out of it.
Since he didn’t let me touch him—kiss him, embrace him—I deduced I wasn’t responsible for it.
He did that to himself.
He hit himself.
He advanced toward me, quick and efficient. I tripped, nearly falling twice while trying to escape him.
“You got what you wanted. Now get out of my house and don’t come back until I call for you. If you don’t get out of here in the next five minutes, I’ll assume you want to see your husband’s true colors and get fucked in front of my friends on the poker table, slowly and all evening, while they watch.”
He stopped when I was cornered, flat against his wall. We were so close I could smell the sex on both of us. Cillian grabbed my neck. I felt the tender rings that had already formed around it from when we had sex.
“You think you escaped a bad relationship by marrying me.” He flashed me his Lucifer smirk. “You have no idea, Flower Girl. I pay them because fucking me is not a pleasure, it’s a job. Now”—he leaned close—“run.”
I did.
I fled before he caught me and did all the things he threatened to.
Bolting down the stairs, I took them two at a time. I crashed into Petar on my way out, clutching his shirt breathlessly.
“Can you call me a cab? Please?” My fingers shook around the collar of his shirt. “I’ll get the driver.” His eyes bulged out.
He was surprised and a little flustered by my state, shoving me out the door as though he, too, was afraid my husband would get to me.
It was only when I was tucked in an Escalade on my way back home that my heart slowed and my mind started working again.
My husband had a deep, dark secret that could ruin him.
Something he was ashamed of.
A weakness I’d almost unveiled.
And tonight, I got very close to finding out what it was.
I tossed and turned in my bed for the rest of the night, going through every emotion in the feelings book. I was angry, scared, worried sick, and vengeful. I hated Cillian for acting the way he did, but I also knew I played a big part of it. He’d always been mean and snarky with me but never cruel. I pushed him, and he felt hunted.
An injured animal thrown into fight-or-flight mode.
A text message lit the pitch-black bedroom. I reached for my nightstand, grabbing my phone. It pained me that I didn’t even consider it could be from him.
Hunter: Your husband is an asshole.
Me: Tell me something I don’t know.
Hunter: All polar bears are left-handed. Bet you didn’t know that.
Hunter: Also, and relatedly, your husband is an asshole who checks his phone every five seconds. Are you guys texting?
Me: No.
Hunter: Weird. He always logs off during poker nights.
Me: Can you do me a favor?
Hunter: What kind? I’m a married man. I know Kill is nowhere near the realms of my perfection, alas, you missed the train.
Me: A—delusional. And B—not even if you were the last man on earth.
Hunter: What’s the favor?
Me: Keep an eye on him. See that he is okay.
Hunter: And you care because…?
Me: He is my husband.
Hunter: I thought that was only on paper.
Me: You thought wrong.
Hunter: Other than the phone shit, he looks like the same old Kill to me. Chain-smoking, drinking devil who needs a good hug and a great fuck.