Page 34 of Spider Demon's Kiss

It wouldn’t be the craziest idea given that his love taps required stitches. But what exactly did “a firm hand” mean?

To know your place is to know yourself. Leave it to the Japanese to have a phrase for that. At the same time, that was life in a pack. We only functioned as an efficient unit when everyone knew and accepted their role within it.

Had I been so thrown by Kuroi being a man that I had neglected my duty as the head of our new family? Had I failed to lay down the ground rules that would tell him who he was to me and my pack? Had it been because I didn’t know?

It hadn’t been my choice to marry Kuroi. I had never pictured myself with a husband. But now I had one and he was the hottest fuckin’ thing on the planet. So, what Kuroi was to me, was mine. He was mine.

If someone thought they could have him, or even look at him funny, I would take their head off. Touch him and my wolf would go for your throat. He wasn’t just under the pack’s protection, he was under my protection and would be until the day I died. And if anyone failed to recognize that, including Kuroi, then they would have a rude awakening.

Yuki said nothing else for the rest of our time together. When she was done with her tea, she simply stood, bowed and walked away. I was the one who remained unsure of what to do next.

I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to run home, grab my hot husband and fuck him raw. We weren’t there yet, though. We might never be. But where we were was at the end of my rope. Tonight, something was going to break.

Chapter 7

Kuroi

Well, that didn’t work. I had thought that I could be the perfect wife, the perfect Japanese woman. I thought I could be my sister. And all I keep doing is cleaning my husband’s blood off the floor.

Oh well. I guess some girls weren’t meant for married life. I guess that means I’ll die alone. Who would have seen that coming? I would imagine, everybody.I hate it when people are right about me!

So, what went wrong? So many things, but let’s start from the beginning. When he arrived home for the first time finding me here, he looked at me funny and I stabbed him. Reasonable.

Next, after slaving in front of the mirror preparing myself, I had dinner waiting for him when he got home, and he laughed at me. In that case, he was just asking to die, wasn’t he? If there is a moth and a flame, what can I do about it?

At the same time, I can’t help but think that I bare some responsible for what’s happened, somehow. That sounds preposterous considering the effort I’ve made. Truly, above and beyond. But still, everyone else I’ve felt something for has died. At some point a girl has to ask, ‘Is it me?’

As impossible as it seems, maybe it is. Certainly I’ve never done anything wrong. If anything extracurricular ever happened with a lover, it was a moth to a flame, just like Dante. Yet, I can’t help but think I might have played a role somehow.

No matter, what has passed has passed. Water under the bridge. All I need to worry about now is what I will make for my husband tonight. He never said what he thought about the casserole. Maybe it was too Midwest Americana for him. Dante was Italian. Perhaps I’ll prepare spaghetti tonight.

Rummaging through my trunk which remained where it was left in the living room, I found the perfect dress. Very 1950s, Italian countryside. It would require the perfect makeup to pull off. The eyebrows over the white face had to scream portabella.

After spending most of the day designing my outfit, I spent another hour soaking in the master bath’s hot tub. All of the day’s stress melted away. Refreshed, I moved to the makeup stand I had set up in the guest bath and got to work. When I was finished, I had to wonder where the day had gone. I barely had enough time to order the food before Dante would come home.

Yesterday he had kept me waiting all night. That might have helped to inspire my completely reasonable reaction. No text or call saying, ‘Honey, I’m going to be late’? How long had he expected me to stand there? I was wearing heels.

But, that was what wives did, didn’t they? Standing waiting dutifully for their husbands? I did my part. I expected him to do his.

Once the food was delivered, I found my husband’s spaghetti bowl and dished up. Setting the table, I waited for 6pm to hit, then put on my shoes. To match the countryside style, I chose flat sandals. They weren’t flattering for my somewhat masculine feet. But if he didn’t like it, he would have to look away.

Taking my position on the edge of the counter within the open floor plan, I would have a clear view of the elevator. When the elevator rang, I would pick up the bowl and the performance would begin.

To my surprise, I didn’t have to wait long. Within five minutes of standing there, I heard it. My hubby was home. Grabbing the bowl and presenting it in front of me, I smiled.

There was something different about Dante as he entered this time. His eyes were steel. They scanned the room for me.When I was found, he approached me like a stalking lion. I nearly creamed my panties.

Parked in front of me, he judged what he saw. My makeup was perfect. There wasn’t a thread out of place. There was nothing I had gotten wrong.

“No,” he proclaimed with authority.

“I’m sorry?” I asked confused by the word.

“I said no.”

I didn’t know how to respond. I wasn’t sure what was going on. Was he trying to tell me what to do?

“Go to the bathroom and wash your face,” he ordered.

---