Page 28 of The Butcher

He caught the envelope before it hit the ground, but he kept his eyes on me the entire time. “Tell her what?—”

“Would you like me to kill you today?” I marched up to him, making him take a step back toward the fountain in the center. “Fucking tell her, or I will. And trust me, you don’t want it to come from me.”

Chapter 8

Fleur

I sat in the armchair in the office, the blinds behind the desk closed. A clock sat on one of the dressers, the ticking of it loud in the quiet space. The marriage counselor was already there, a woman in her sixties, someone who had enough life experience to handle a delicate situation like this. We talked about the weather for a while, and I looked at the small vase in the corner of her desk, fresh roses there like she’d picked them from her own garden.

Adrien was late, which was ironic, considering he was punctual for every appointment. He actually got me here, and he hadn’t even shown up.

A minute later, he walked inside and hurried to his seat. “I’m so sorry I’m late.” He turned to me, apologizing to me more than the therapist. His hand reached for mine on my lap. “I’m so glad you’re here?—”

My hand immediately withdrew, like his touch was the plague.

He stilled at my actions then retracted his hand.

A pair of blue eyes flashed across my mind, eyes that were so pretty but so hard at the same time, that could drill past my vacant stare and see the depth of who I was below. His hand had gripped my throat, had marked my ass where he’d struck me, had cupped my face in the gentlest way.

I looked away from Adrien and swallowed.

Linda was the name of our marriage counselor, and she had just witnessed our first interaction. “Trust has been broken. There is also deep-seated resentment. A lot for us to work through.” She looked at us with a nonjudgmental gaze, like she saw this sort of thing all the time, a woman working past her husband’s infidelity.

“I never thought I’d be sitting here.” I stared at the roses, pink with dark shading along the edges, like they were wild rather than the curated ones from the professional gardens outside of Paris. They looked like they grew in a pot on someone’s terrace, surviving the rain and living for the spots of sunshine between the clouds.

Linda looked at me. “Would you care to share more, Fleur?”

I shook my head. “We were happy. At least, I thought we were.”

Adrien cut in. “We were happy?—”

“Let her speak,” Linda said. “It’s clear how difficult this is for her.”

I swallowed before I continued. “I thought I had a husband who loved me, truly loved me, and I know all women think their men will never cheat, but I actually believed it. I’ve done everything I can to be a good wife. I’m the same size as the day he married me, I cook his favorite things, give him love and affection andmake him feel worthy of my heart… But it didn’t matter.” I focused on those roses because they were the only things I could grab on to, but what I really wanted was a pair of blue eyes that burned with strength.

The images came to me again, the shadows in the corners of his bedroom, the lights from the Eiffel Tower as they shimmered and danced, the way he kissed me like he loved me one moment and threw me on the bed the next. I didn’t know who I was when I was with him—but I liked her.

When it was clear I had nothing more to say, Linda turned to Adrien. “How does that make you feel, Adrien?”

He was quiet for a while, trying to find the right words. “It hurts me to know that Fleur is searching for the blame…when I’m the one who fucked up. She did nothing wrong. I was just a fucking idiot. There’s no better explanation than that. The experience has shown me how much I love my wife, because I would do anything to take it back.”

I didn’t take my eyes off the roses.

You’re too beautiful for this bullshit.

I felt his thumb in the corner of my mouth, felt his fingers tangle my hair with their grip, smelled him even when he wasn’t in the room, felt the comfort of his protection like he was there that moment.

“How does that make you feel, Fleur?”

I didn’t even know him.

Didn’t know his last name.

I’d fucked him bareback, begged him to come inside me, dug my hands into his hair so he couldn’t leave. From the first moment I saw him and dragons breathed fire in my belly, I’d known he’d leave a mark on me that was as permanent as a tattoo.

I didn’t know him.

And I didn’t know me when I was with him.

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