Page 11 of Hidden While In Sight

He forced himself to focus on the phone conversation. Ashford was definitely a dirty motherfucker, but he never said anything quite detailed enough. He was as careful and controlled as he was in every other part of his life. It was no wonder he’d made that low, wet sound when he’d come the night before, as if letting himself orgasm was above him. His face had probably been tortured instead of slack.

Except there’d been a toxic eagerness on his face while he’d smacked the shit out of his wife’s ass. That hadn’t been controlled or careful.

And Diego was back to wanting to kill the fucker.

It was his own fault. He shouldn’t have pulled the bedroom feed. He was sick enough to want to save a copy of her stripping naked for himself before deleting the evidence of his home invasion. After sending the clip to his phone, he’d come hard while watching it, jerking off to those tiny tits of hers.

The quickness of his orgasm had irritated him. He’d used a tissue to clean up before he watched it again. This time he hadn’t focused on her nipples.

It wasn’t just her wrist that had shown discoloration from bruises. There were older green and yellow bruises on her torso and arms. There were also scars. White, translucent lines, ones that reminded him of his own healed wounds from a blade.

Had Ashford cut her at some point?

Her back was worse. Diego had been so focused on her ass and pussy before that he’d missed the nicks and gouges. The only thing he could picture making those marks was a belt buckle.

She was a punching bag for her husband, even if Diego hadn’t seen it with his own two eyes yet.

He was almost positive that the sag to her mouth was evidence of those punches. Nerve damage could do that, and that sag hadn’t been there in the earliest pictures he’d found. Not the one from their wedding and definitely not the one with her parents, where her dimples had appeared because she’d been grinning so wide.

He’d already been limp from coming, or else the realization about her mouth would have caused his dick to soften.

Diego didn’t know why he cared. Hannah was a Bible-thumping bitch who didn’t even bother to spend time with her children except to tuck them into bed at night. A decent mother would at least ask the nanny about them, but she didn’t do that, not that he’d seen.

The world was not kind to anyone. Why should he care about this rich, unfeeling woman?

The sound of breaking glass drew his focus. Colin Ashford was throwing a tantrum, pitching his glass against the wall of his home office. Despite pretending to have a tight grip on his control, the lawyer lost his shit easily. All Diego had done so far was appear in his driveway, and that had set him off.

Diego wasn’t the only one who’d heard the glass shatter. His gaze flickered to the dining room, where the kids had jumped and Hannah was slowly putting down her fork.

Ashford’s office door slammed open, hitting the jamb that protected the wall with a thud as he stalked straight for the dining room.

The toddler shoved food into her mouth, her cheeks bulging like a hamster.

The slightly older boy set his fork down in the same way his mother had.

Colin Ashford moved behind his wife’s chair, his face still furious as he put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. His eyes cut down to her barely touched plate. “You’ve had enough.”

Hannah didn’t nod or deny it. Her hands slid down to her lap as she let her gaze drop with them.

Ashford’s anger slid off his face, as if he’d finally realized his mask had faltered.

“Ms. Clemmon, please help the children prepare for bed.”

“Of course,” The nanny said, motioning to the children.

Hannah’s face snapped up, and Diego caught a flash of panic. “But—”

The way Ashford squeezed down on her shoulder shut her up, and she quickly stared back at her lap.

The son never glanced at Hannah as he left the dining room, but their daughter’s gaze clung to her mother.

Hannah didn’t return it.

Anne Clemmon, the nanny’s name according to the intel, also stared at Hannah, but it wasn’t with an expression that Diego was expecting. There was no concern or reassurance. No, the young nanny was fucking angry, but her anger was different from Ashford’s. Jealousy was an ugly expression.

“On your knees,” Ashford barked, stepping back but not helping Hannah by pulling out her chair. His hands dropped to undo his belt.

Diego stood, his rolling chair sliding backward as he gripped the desk. As soon as the belt hit her back, he was going over there to kill the fucker. He’d let Ramiro deal with the fallout.

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