Wretched Love

“Are you married? Yes or no?” Swiss spoke through gritted teeth, nostrils flaring, staring at me like I was a stranger.

No, a traitor.

My heart felt like it was being squeezed by a vice.

The silence between us was a thousand knives, plunging into my skin.

“Yes.” Though barely audible, I somehow found enough strength to force the word past the emotion lodged in my throat.

I was shrinking back into myself, retreating back into a mold that I thought I’d shed, thought I’d left behind.

I didn’t retreat, not completely. Not as I stared at him, remembered what he’d made me feel, how he’d awakened me, the life I’d slipped into like it was made for me.

“But it’s not—”

“It’s not what I think?” he interrupted coldly. “You really gonna spout that tired shit?”

I stepped forward, even though I was terrified, even though his body language told me not to. Even though every instinct I’d honed about volatile men screamed at me to stay put, or better yet, run. But I ignored those instincts, recalling the memories I’d created with him, focusing on the way he had empowered me. How safe he’d made me feel. All the room he’d given me to grow.

“Honey,” I started, voice subdued.

“Don’t you come near me, or I swear I will not be responsible for my actions,” he snarled.

Snarled.

I stopped abruptly, skuttling back, expecting a blow.

One didn’t come.

Because Swiss would never lay a hand on me in anger. I knew that. In my soul I knew that. But my instincts weren’t there yet. Not with Preston right outside.

Something shifted in Swiss’s eyes, something puncturing through whatever ice shield he’d created. Unfortunately, it disappeared quickly, along with my hope.

I felt rather than saw a couple of the men move closer to me, as if preparing to get in the middle of something. As if Swiss would hurt me.

They were scared he was going to lay hands on me.

Swiss was angry. Beyond angry. And he was the most dangerous person in this room, but I knew to my core that he wouldn’t lay a finger on me.

He didn’t need to in order to destroy me completely.

“I don’t want to hear your bullshit.” The words were spoken by a man who looked exactly like Swiss, but as if the man I’d come to know was a figment of my imagination. He stared at me with a detachment, a coldness I didn’t know he was capable of.

“You’re just a bored housewife who was sick of getting fucked selfishly by her rich, douchebag husband. You are not special. You are not unique. You were just an easy fuck.” His eyes panned over me in disgust.

Disgust.

Hansen stepped forward, toward Swiss. “Brother, think you need to take a second.”

Swiss didn’t so much as glance at him.

“Older than I’d like, but you’ve taken decent care of yourself,” he spat at me. “It wasn’t a chore. But now I’m done. I need a new piece of ass. Younger, without strings.”

My palms were damp with sweat, knees buckling, my body working as hard as it possibly could just to stay upright.

That couldn’t be true. He couldn’t possibly be saying this. This was a man who could be ruthless, cruel, heartless. He’d told me as much. I’d witnessed as much second hand. But I’d never been afraid of those things. Of him. I’d never thought that he would direct his wrath at me.

I’d been comfortable with him. Felt safe.