Page 236 of Hateful Games

“Excuse me, who are you?”

“The man she calls her husband, whose bed she sleeps in every night, and the one who will slit your throat in the next two seconds if you don’t take your hands off my wife.”

Panicked, his charm drops and he scurries away on shaky legs.

A fuming Rosa whips around and glares. “Do you hear yourself? Stop acting like a deranged psychopath. People are put behind bars for intent to kill, just so you know.”

Blood still boiling like hot lava in my veins, I capture her wrist and drag her to a small alcove, away from prying eyes. I push her against the brick wall.

“He had his hands on you.”

“It was innocent. He wasn’t even flirting.”

I tilt my head and taunt cruelly, “I thought it made your pussy wet when I staked my claim publicly. Isn’t that what you said when you were riding my fingers?”

“That was different.” Her voice is trembling.

“It wasn’t.”

“You can’t threaten every man I talk to,” she sharply dictates.

I search the truth in her eyes and everything clicks. Shoving her arms over her head, I circle her throat. Her eyelashes fluttering, breathing picking up when I press on the sides. It has the desired effect of her squirming in arousal. “If you’re testing me for what I said last night, you’re playing a very dangerous game. Someone innocent will get hurt.”

With that warning, I pull away and bring us back into the milling crowd.

“We’re leaving.”

She tugs her hand free. “I need the restroom.”

Deciding I need to cool off before I go after that man, I stroll toward the bar. While I’m drinking water, I run into a friend of mine who often attends these sorts of events. We’re chatting when a loud noise interrupts everyone.

I assume they’re making some random announcement, but then I hear my name.

“You heard it right, ladies and gentlemen. All five models with rich history and remodeled by leading specialists have been sold to Mr. Nova D’Cruz at the bidding price of fifteen million euros.”

The fuck.

I’m left dumbfounded as guests applaud. Most in envy and competition.

Suddenly, Rosalie appears before me. A smug, deviant, and retaliating goddess.

“I guess I was in the mood to spend my husband’s money, after all.” Flipping her hair back, she turns and says, “I’m ready to leave now, hubby.”

Left in a precarious position with my reputation in line, I meet the auctioneer in the private study and sign the respective papers. The money is wire transferred and we exchange hands. Him smiling like a man who won the lottery.

Livid beyond words at Rosalie’s petty and reckless behavior, I’m silently seething as I briskly walk to the car. My wife is sitting inside, casually scrolling through her phone. I give a clipped order to the driver to take us back.

The ride is quick and tense. So is the elevator ride up to our suite.

Rosalie is humming a tune, swinging the door open and entering.

“What the hell was that, Rose?” I demand furiously, slamming the door to our suite shut, and stalk after my wife.

Rosalie shrugs, walking ahead.

She fucking shrugs. Like she didn’t just spend over ten million euros in an act of defiance. I don’t give a fuck about the money. I would’ve bought them all if she had asked.

However, she did it to piss me off.

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