Page 67 of My Wife

At this time, it is confirmed that Ms. Preston was the sole passenger and casualty, and that this was an accident that has no correlation to the Halo Island Massacre…

I shouldn’t have doubted him. When he suggested I take a page out of his book and fake my own death, I didn’t think it would work. But since our reunion on the island, we’ve been making a fresh start of things. He doesn’t hold my time with Tommy over my head, and I try not to be bitter that I lost five years with my husband because of a stupid promise he made when he was a teenager.

Tommy is dead. Clayton Rivers, too. And, now, so is Cynthia Preston.

Is it too soon to move on? Maybe. I struggled to start over after I thought Clay was gone the first time, but now that I have him back and—as Mr. and Mrs. Clay Barker, newly ‘married’ and currently on their honeymoon on a tropical island far from California—I can’t think of a better way to begin my second—third—chance at a happily-ever-after.

I have a husband who will do anything for me. I used to think Clay was the one with the upper hand, especially after the way he manipulated me into our relationship all those years ago, but after the island… I can’t deny what I’ve always known.

I own this man. He ‘died’ for me. Hekilledfor me. There isn’t anything he won’t give me, and now that Clay’s seen just how fun the dark side can be, there’s no going back. Not for either of us.

To take his place on the island, poor Aaron might have been Clay’s first victim. He never killed before he and Tommy set their convoluted plan into motion; not because of any moralshe might have, but because it never interested him before. He wanted me.Justme. And if he had to sacrifice all those lives, slaughter my friends—my tormentors—as penance for leaving me for Tommy to take, he would do it. He got a taste for it, though. The blood. The hunt. Thechase. I should’ve known that, to a man like Clay, playing God could become an addiction.

Good thing for the two of us—and the rest of the fucking world—that he’s already addicted tome.

I’ll go to my knees for him whenever he wants me to, and if he commands me to crawl to him, I will because nothing gets my husband hotter than thinking he’s in control when it comes to sex. I can give him that because, deep down, Clayton Rivers has always been the dog at my feet. I’m his mistress, and he’ll do anything to please me.

I say ‘fuck’, he’s already hard. I say ‘kill’, he won’t hesitate to draw his blade. I say ‘worship me’, and the only man who’s ever really loved me for who I am is already on his fucking knees, nuzzling my pussy, begging for a taste.

If it was up to Clay, he’d still be tonguing me now. Sprawled out on the thousand-dollar sheets in the honeymoon suite of our luxury hotel, he gave me two orgasms for breakfast before I shoved him away from me with my foot to his shoulder. As strong as he is, I know he only moved because I wanted him to, and when I motioned for him to flip onto his back so that I could climb on top, he folded his hands behind his back and watched as I fucked him.

But after he finished and the two of us took a shower in the oversized stall—that ended with me bent over under the spray while Clay thumbed my ass as he pounded into my pussy again—I insisted on taking lunch by the glittering infinity pool outside of our hotel.

Clay denies me nothing. He never did while we were married the first time, and now that he’s eager to make up those fiveyears to me, I get every fucking thing that I want. I deserve it, too, and maybe when another five years pass, I’ll think about easing up the pressure I have on his balls. So he stalked me. So he thought he was giving me what I wanted: another chance at happiness with Tommy. So he never touched another woman while we were separated… He’s my husband. I’m his wife.

‘Til death do we part.

A small smirk tugs on my lips as I read the last few sentences of that article again, including Detective Jordan’s useless plea to get in touch with Aaron; unless he’s got a scuba diver and a medium on the GPDs payroll, that’s not happening anytime soon. According to the rest of the world, both of us—me and Clay—have died already. But with these new identities, plus enough paperwork and cash to back them up—we’ve renewed our promises. We’ve renewed our vows.

We’re together, and there is absolutelynothingthat will ever separate my husband and me again.

Thumbing my phone, I scroll up the top of the page, my smirk turning to a slight frown when I catch a second glance at the picture they used for my ‘death’ announcement.

I’m amused, but I’m also a vain bitch. “If they’re gonna write an article about me dying in such a grisly way, they could’ve picked a better picture,” I mutter, more to myself than to my husband.

As always, though, he hears me.

“You look gorgeous, Cyn,” Clay says.

He heard me, but I hear how distracted he suddenly sounds. Glancing over at him, I see his predatory gaze locked on a man seated on the other side of the hotel pool.

Oh, Clay.

The man is a little older than us. I’d put him in his mid-thirties, with a sculpted body he paid for, and a hundred-dollar haircut.

He catches my eye. With a tiny smile full of both humor and an undeniable invitation, he pats the empty chair next to him.

Clay starts to get up from his.

The two of us are side by side, lying on a pair of pool chairs that Clay scooted together so that our thighs are touching. It couldn’t be more obvious that we’re together, and if I’m with a man like Clayton Rivers, I can’t imagine why some stranger would think I’d leave my husband for him.

The only exception ever was Tommy Gillis, and that was because the sixteen-year-old Cynthia I once was had a soft spot for him. Even then, I watched him choke on his blood, then framed him for the murders of our entire friend group…

I lay my fingers on top of Clay’s arm. He relaxes a fraction, lying back down as he murmurs angrily, “He’s been watching you since we came out here.”

Because of my skimpy bikini, no doubt. “And?”

Clay’s jaw goes tight. “I could carve out his eyes. He’d stop looking at my wife then. Cut off his fingers so he doesn’t try to beckon her over to him. Drown him so I feel better. Any of those options work for me.”

---