The Killer's New Wife

“Go to hell,” I said.

He only laughed and watched me get into the car.

Ewan pulled out and sped back toward the city. We drove in silence for a while and I sat staring out the window as that meeting replayed in my mind.

They wanted me to marry him. And if I didn’t, they were going to kill the both of us. I knew it as much as he did.

I didn’t understand why he wouldn’t simply do it. Other men in his position would. Not that I wanted him to—I’d much rather him do anything else. Dean might’ve been right, Ewan wasn’t so bad, but I didn’t love him, and I didn’t want to marry him. He could avoid all of these problems simply by making me marry him and getting it over with, and still, he refused his Don straight to the old man’s face, even though he claimed to be unflinchingly loyal.

I didn’t understand it, not even a little bit.

I wanted to go home. I wanted my old life back.

That was gone though. That wasn’t coming back.

And now I had to choose between a life of misery with this strange killer, or losing my life entirely, and I wasn’t sure which was worse.

7

Ewan

We didn’t talk about getting married. I didn’t run out and buy her a big, fat diamond ring.

But something did change. She woke up early and made coffee the next day, and she was already working on breakfast when I got back from my workout. Normally, she slept late, but for some reason she decided to get up and make me pancakes.

Not that I’d complain about pancakes, but it was odd. “Looks good,” I said and leaned up against the refrigerator.

“You do all the cooking,” she said. “I figured I’d pitch in, you know, be a good roommate.”

I laughed softly and was tempted to reach out and touch her, but kept it together. I didn’t know why she called herself my roommate—maybe it was black humor, or maybe something else. But we both knew the truth of our relationship, and the Don’s ultimatum hung between us like thick, unspoken silk.

I showered off and ate while she did yoga on the balcony. I watched the long, lean lines of her legs and ass, her muscular back showing off every time she bent forward, the stupidly expensive crop top falling forward to show off a pink sports bra. I didn’t understand how half a shirt could still cost me six hundred dollars, but hell, I didn’t care, so long as she kept wearing it. I loved the way the sweat rolled down her pale skin and her downy blonde arm hair puckered up from the chilly morning air. I leaned back against my chair, sipping my coffee, enjoying the show.

Until someone knocked at the door. I was startled up and into the kitchen. I kept a small gun under the sink, taped up and out of sight, and I pulled it down. I waited a few moments, standing near the door, and listened for signs of someone outside—but there were no more knocks, and no noise to give them away.

When someone wanted to come to my place, they buzzed from outside. I didn’t get visitors knocking on my door like that. Maybe it was a delivery guy and someone else let them into the building, or maybe it was a neighbor, although I kept to myself and made sure my place was spotless and clean. The last thing I needed was someone complaining.

Tentatively, I turned the knob and pulled it open a crack. My heart was steady and my hands didn’t shake, even though I had reason to believe someone out in the hallway meant to hurt me. I’d been in situations like this before over the years, though never at my own doorway. I was used to danger, used to death lingering beyond a threshold, and I’d managed to kill anyone that came after me, and there’d been more than a few. I had no reason to think anything would be different now.

I was wired differently, I knew that. This sort of constant pressure and fear sat heavy on most men. It wore them down and eventually broke them. But I was like an ancient shark living at the bottom of the sea, already pressurized, already crushed to the core. I grew up in danger and fear, and everything now was simply extra.

The hallway was empty as I swung the door open hard. It banged against the frame and I steadied it with my off hand, the gun sweeping my line of sight. I checked the opposite end, and there was nothing.

I stepped on something that crackled and pulled back. It was a white envelope, business letter-sized, with my name written in black ink. There was no postage, and no return address.