Page 76 of Seizing Control: Part Two

I just want my wife back.

Any way I can have her.

Lazarus must take my lack of response as submission because he starts to paw at my head wound. From his inspection, I can tell that the gouge I’ve taken out of my scalp isn’t all that deep, even if it continues to bleed profusely. He jostles me, ignoring my grumbled objections, to press two fingers to his ear.

I hear the buzz of an undecipherable voice mixed with low static before he says, “Need you to send a medic to the compound.” More buzzing, this time it’s animated, almost like shouting. Lazarus growls low in his throat, then he snaps, “Just sent a fuckin’ medic, goth girl.” His fingertips return to my head, painfully prodding and pushing the wound. “Let’s get you in the shower—clean you up before they arrive.”

My legs refuse to cooperate when he hauls me back to my feet. Head spinning, stomach heaving, I am light-headed and nauseous. Once we’re squeezed inside the cubicle together, Lazarus props me against the tiles and backtracks to lock the bathroom door. I snort at his attempt to keep me trapped. There’s no way I’ll be able to outrun him, drunk and bleeding. While he fusses with the taps, I concentrate on remaining upright. Satisfied with the temperature, he steps under the spray, apparently uncaring that he’s getting drenched, and takes hold of my upper arm to drag me under the cascading water.

It’s hot, bordering on scalding.

It’s perfect.

The heat takes the chill out of my bones. Sobering me up while ridding me of the stench that’s wafting from me. When I muster the energy to grab a washcloth and soap it up to scrub the filth away from my skin, I’m shocked to discover how frail I am. Overly sensitive to touch. Too bony. I was stressed out, unable to eat properly during the months spent on the east coast, and things only got worse upon my return. For a tall man who’s always found it easy to maintain a ripped physique, it scares me to death to discover how quickly I can become a shadow of myself. My mental state has been a mess for a year, but I kind of figured my body would hold up a bit better than it has so far.

Especially when the man fucking my wife is fitter than ever.

“You need to get your shit together,” Lazarus comments.

Lifting my face to the ceiling, I let the water pound down over my face. Any response I have for my wife’s fuck buddy is likely to end up in an argument since he seems determined to force me to live. Nostrils filling with water, I hold my breath. While I luxuriate in the burn spreading through my chest, the man blocking the doorway of the shower grumbles something hostile, before he shoves my shoulder.

“Take a breath, you dumb motherfucker.”

I make a show of inhaling and exhaling.

“Jesus Christ, you’re a fuckin’ child.”

When I offer him no argument, he lapses into silence. The pounding shower is loud in the quiet. With one hand bracing my weight against the tiles, I slick the soap from my body using the other. It takes a while for the water that circles the drain to lose the pink tinge, but once it does, I shampoo my hair and rinse it just to be sure. The sting in my scalp is energising. Pain is an adrenaliser to me—something much needed if I’m going to survive sharing a shower with my wife’s lover.

Survive.

Fuck...

The realisation that I tried to kill myself hits me.

My shame spiral is aborted by the sound of footsteps thudding down the hallway.

“Is that?—”

Lazarus cuts off my question with a raised hand and a shake of his head. Reading his expression, I leave the shower running as I step out of the cubicle on shaky legs. He edges toward the only exit, reaching it at the same time as it’s kicked in. Once. Twice. Three times. The door explodes open, and he covers his face with his arm, half-turning away from the interloper at the same time as he crouches to grab his abandoned handgun from the floor. Quickly wrapping a towel around my waist, I dodge the splintering wood, then duck behind the ruined door when it drops to the floor after the top hinge breaks.

“Well, what do we have here?” Hugh St. James drawls. The pistol he nudges against Lazarus’ temple is superfluous considering the semiautomatic his soldier is wielding. “Was comin’ to make my wayward bride-to-be a widow... turns out I’m too late.” He pulls a face when he gestures toward the blood on the floor and the still running shower. “You spoilt my fun.” Steam billows from the cubicle, fogging up the room as he urges Lazarus to turn back to him. I ready myself for gunshots, but end up choking back laughter when Hugh finally gets a good look at the sodden man he’s holding at gunpoint, and the colour drains from his face. “Venom. What the fuck? You’re dead.”

“Who’s Venom?” Lazarus cocks his head to the side and arches an eyebrow. The middle son of the new Maddison clan boss bristles at the shit-eating grin that he’s pinned a moment before my sometimes-friend drawls, “Sounds like a bloke I’d like to meet if he’s capable of riling you up so fast.”

The longer Lazarus speaks the more Hugh’s confusion seems to ramp up. It is strange how different Venom sounds nowadays. He holds himself like a whole new person. His persona is worn with authenticity, to the point where I find it hard to remember that he wasn’t always the man he is today. There’s no way I’d tell him this, not while he remains the victor in our fight for Cherub’s heart, but he is a better person nowadays.

The old version would have killed me for laying hands on his Lily.

Instead, he’s hellbent on talking me into living...

“I watched you die,” Hugh mutters. He keeps on speaking like he didn’t hear Lazarus’ snarky denial. “Saw Brutus slit your throat.” I feel the change come over my lifelong friend at the reminder of his godfather’s attempt to murder him. It’s an electrical charge that fills the air, turns his lethal side with the instancy of a switch being flipped. The Maddison clan captain doesn’t appear to notice. Instead, he continues digging his grave. “Heard you choke on your own blood.”

At the sound of a hammer being cocked, I freeze.

From my position, it’s hard to ascertain who’s weapon was engaged.

Was it Hugh?

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