Page 21 of Sinful Reality

She snorts. “Noted.”

“Good. Talk to you then.” I turn at the first-floor landing and continue up, then I drag the phone from my ear and ignore everyone else. The texts from Felix. The one from Micah. I don’t bother responding to Cato’s, and not even the mayor’s gentle curiosity can tempt me to open my emails. I slip the device into my pocket and charge up the remaining stairs, my body warm from the run and my heart pounding with anticipation. Because my wife needs me, and despite her normal instincts, she fights the thoughts that try to pull her in and orders Thai for us, anyway.

Infusion night typically means I won’t even get laid. An adjustment for the man who could come a half dozen times a day if she’d let me. But there isn’t a single shred of regret in my body that focuses on what Idon’tget tonight. Because all of me obsesses on what Idoget.

My wife propped against my side, the delicious scent of her hair in my lungs and her needle, more than likely, in my hand. Because fuck, she trusts me to administer her meds, knowing I won’t hurt her.

My blood tingles at the thought of carrying her to bed later because I know she’ll fall asleep watching whatever trash we put on the TV, and after that, pulling her onto my chest and falling asleep with her body wrapped around mine.

Because that’s where we find peace. It’s our safe space where no one can hurt us, and nothing can slide between.

But why, when I emerge at the top of the stairs and skid to a stop, do I spot a bag of takeout dumped on the floor by our door? Why does my baby brother sit right beside it, his head pressed to the wall, his knees perched high, and his elbows resting on top?

More importantly, why is the apartment door open, andwho the fuck is my wife speaking to?

“Cato?”

Slowly, almost lazily, he sets a silencing finger on his lips to shut me up.

“Methylcarbinol is a muscle relaxer,” Minka mumbles, her monotone like a serrated knife to my throat. “Ethyl hydroxide?” She says the words like a question, which means she’s answering someone else’s. “Old fashioned methylated spirits. It’s alcohol. It’s a cleaning agent. It’ll send a man blind if he drinks it.”

“Who is she talking to?” I keep my voice low and slowly bend, scooping up our still-warm dinner. Moisture builds inside the bag and drips back to the containers inside when I jostle it. “It’s not Aubree.”

Cato shakes his head and murmurs, “Some cop. Paxton something.”

“Gilbert.” Curious, I drag my lip between my teeth and pass my brother’s freakishly long legs, his shoes the perfect weapon to trip me up. Then, I move through the door and quietly cross to the counter to set our dinner down. The TV is off, but Minka is already on the couch. Which isn’t a bad thing, I suppose. Except for the fact I’m not there with her. “Hey.” I know she’s on the phone, so I don’t shout or demand attention. But I shrug my coat off and keep the back of her head in my vision. The way she holds the phone in her left hand and glances down into her lap.

Reading notes, maybe. Or her laptop, like last night.

“You left our dinner in the hall, babe. I was gonna?—”

“Shh.” She fucking shushes me, half turning, so I catch her face in profile and the tiny wrinkles fanning from her eyes to show her frustration. “Yeah, no. It’s Archer. Sounds like his chosen cleaning-agent is metho,” she continues, completely fucking ignoring me in favor of her phone call. “He didn’t clean the girls, per se. But he cleaned his home because each of them had the chemical collection imbedded in the pads of their fingers. This was discovered pretty early on, Pax. It’s not new information.”

Pax?

My heart wrenches in my chest, the Malone madness sprinting through like a wildfire in the summer. Because maybe I escaped that godforsaken life and left behind the world I was supposed to exist within, but I am who I am, and my father is who he was.

Jealousy is like a fire hydrant let loose in my body, the taps released and the wash of anger like a furious flood in my veins.

But I tamp it down.

I fucking drive it down and force myself to remember I’m better than the world I came from, and Minka Mayet is nothing if not loyal to me. Her heart, her soul, her entire being. There’s no room for jealousy in my marriage, so I swallow the poison and turn to make a beeline for the fridge.

She needs her meds and dinner. This is not the first time I’ve walked in to find her discussing a case long after office hours, which means although shehadplans to feed and medicate herself, they’ve gone to the wayside now that her phone is in her hand.

As her husband, it’s my duty to help remind her.

I pull the fridge open and select a factor pack from the middle shelf. Every pack comes with two vials, one with powder, and the other, liquid. Peeling the box open and snagging the small bottle of liquid, I hold it in my closed fist and breathe warm air into the tiny gap at the end so I can bring it up to room temperature.

The colder it is, the more it stings, sliding into her veins.

“We’re definitely looking for a male,” she continues, her body hidden by the back of the couch. But I see her shoulders—no hoodie—which is kind of a shame.I like it when she wears mine.

“The DNA left in the girlsprovesit, Pax. It’s not up for discussion. The M.E.s findings for each of the cases indicates penetration with a penis. Fingers, perhaps. But nothing else.”

Like sticks,I think to myself, though my brain and stomach reject the idea of exploring the thought further.

Bottles. Toys.

---