Page 56 of Anorthic Anarchy

For the first time, a tiny smile lifts the corners of her lips. “I’ve been here a long time. Since I was very young. I grew up near the master and watched him change while I adapted. Women have come and gone. Slaves were whipped too hard. Chefs boiled in their own soup.”

Her eyes glaze over with a memory. She sets to work fixing my hair again and continues. “I studied the exact patterns of his desires. What makes him rage the most. What times he needs food or sleep. Which area of his cock will get him off the easiest. Which type of fabric sets his teeth on edge. Never able to have a life, but allowed to live one.”

Part of me feels saddened by her confession. When I think she’s done, she stands in front of me and rolls her lips together. “Do this.”

I mimic her motion, and she swipes at my mouth with a tissue to clean up the makeup she applied. Picking up a bottle of perfume, she spritzes some on. It smells like roses, but not old lady stuff. She spins me to face the mirror and holds out a hand at her work. I do look beautiful.

“He’ll like this.” She turns on her heel, but I want her to stay. The burning question lingers on the tip of my tongue and she’s going to slip by without answering it. As I open my mouth to command her to speak, she turns to me with her hand on the door. “No, sweetheart. I never wanted to be Mrs. Strauss. Most of the time, I cannot stand the man. But I’m anexcellentsurvivor.” With a shrug, she lifts one eyebrow. “Besides, I’m a lesbian.”

The mirror almost falls on top of me as she slams the door when she goes.

Teetering on my skinny shoes, I carefully crawl down each stone step to the living room. My husband’s back flexesunderneath a suit jacket as he plays the wedding march on an organ, the sound filtering through brass pipes that almost reach the boxed ceiling three stories high above us.

He’s playing it for me.

I stand silently in observance, thinking about the last weeks with him. Is it just survival? Or is the verve of the music swaying me to become nostalgic?

He stops suddenly and peeks over his shoulder with a boyish grin, and I become a bit sad that he never got to be that. A boy.

My hands slap together with a violent round of applause as he darts over to me, then kisses me gently. There’s a glimmer behind the motion that he could take it by force if he chose.

But I think he wants me to stay.

His body makes me hot, and my clit pulses just from being near him. I don’t take his confessions lightly. And I don’t want to heal him. I can’t.

“My angel is breathtaking. Red and rubied.” The back of a knuckle drags across my cheek, then he tugs on one earring Dilan put in my ear. Lingering for a moment, his eyes drop to the collar around my neck and he feels along the leather engraving on the front of it. “Let’s feed my little girl now. What do you say?”

“Yes, master.”

A deep growl rumbles from his chest as he snags my hand in his, then walks me toward the dining room across the hall. Two place settings lay near the head of the table and the room dances with candlelight. Vincente pulls my head to his lips and kisses it before guiding me into a chair, then pushes me closer to the table when I sit.

When he takes the one at the end, he rests his palm up on the table and wiggles his fingers at me until I relent and place mine in his. Dark red wine fills the glasses, and I wonder what it tastes like. Taking a sip, I choke, then cough at the bitter flavor while my husband laughs. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I think I’ll stick with my water.”

A chef comes out of the kitchen holding a silver tray and uncovers it with a flourish. “Antipasto is bruschetta with roasted vegetables and goat cheese.”

Flavors burst on my palate with every bite of the small appetizer. And when I have mine, I sneak a look toward Vincente’s until he smiles and places his on my plate.

“In the office today…” I chew up my bites as he leans back and takes a few drinks from his glass.

“Yes?”

“You said you wanted vengeance.”

His neck muscles tighten as he swallows, a drop of the cabernet escaping his lips until he snares it back inside with the tip of his tongue. “Yes.”

“Against who?Whom?” I quickly correct myself.

“Herodius and Clavius. The organizations your brother worked for. The ones that my father obeyed.”

The chef returns and uncovers another tray, larger this time, and slides plates of spaghetti on our chargers. “Primo!”

Once he leaves, I dart my eyes up to my husband’s while twirling some noodles on my fork. “The ones in charge of trafficking?”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t care about that.”

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