Page 62 of Filthy Little Regrets

Ultimately, curiosity gets the better of me, and I slowly make my way through the house. Checking the living room, the den, the pool room, and then heading upstairs, thinking maybe he decided to shower. The bedrooms are all empty, though. The office is abandoned. There’s only one place leftto check.

As lovely as the heels are, my feet hurt. I slip off the gorgeous shoes before heading back down the stairs, running my hand along the railing and feeling a little silly in the dress, but it’s not every day I get to wear Vivian Carlisle.

Silver linings.

The marble tile is cool against the bottom of my feet as I pad into the kitchen. Mace is sitting at the island, an ice pack pressed to his temple and a bottle of beer in front of him. My chest clenches. Mace does a good job hiding from most of the world, and even though I recognized a darkness within him, it isn’t what I expected. The shadows in his gaze make sense now, though.

Is forcing kids to cage fight some type of sick hobby billionaires have? How many times did he have to do it?

Mace’s shoulders bunch in anticipation of questions.

Rose was right. Tonight isn’t the night. I link my hands behind my back, rounding the island and meeting his gaze like I have so many times before. His pupils are no longer dilated. Guarded as they are, the rich dark blue irises are a welcome sight. His hair is a little messy, like he’s run his fingers through it, and a bit of blood has dried at the edge of his mouth.

Crue got him good a few times. There’s a bruise blooming on his jaw, probably one under the ice pack, and maybe a few on his torso. Overall, though, he’s not in bad shape, at least not physically. Mentally, I’m not sure how he’s doing. All I know is there’s some type of battle going on inside of him. I imagine the comedown from a fight like that is rough, not exactly like an anxiety attack, but maybe close enough.

He helped me through my anxiety attack. It would be rude of me not to reciprocate.It’s what anyone would do, I tellmyself. It isn’t because I feel bad for him. It’s definitely not because I’m wondering how to cut his dad to a million pieces. There’s a special place in the hottest part of hell for people who hurt children.

I’m aware of him observing me as I pull open a drawer, grab a cloth, and turn on the tap, holding the rag under the running water. My neck prickles, realizing the assassin has me in his scope, but I trust that the orders aren’t meant for me. I’m not Mace’s enemy. I’m...his wife. My brow furrows. I let the cloth soak through until the water turns warm, then ring it out. Taking a steadying breath, I walk toward him.

His eyes track me and his muscles stiffen with each step I take, preparing to fend off an attack if needed.It’s only instinct. My hours spent scrolling therapist videos on social media have me aching to dissect his reactions. Slowly, to show I’m not a threat, I push the stool beside him out of the way and stand next to him, leaning against the island.

He turns slightly so it’s easier for him to watch me, but his jaw remains clenched.

He doesn’t want to talk? Fine. He doesn’t have to talk. The last thing I want when I’m having a panic attack is for someone to force me to explain what I’m feeling.

I pointedly look at his mouth and hold up the rag. Although a line cuts across his forehead, he shifts to fully face me, scrutinizing me with those shadowed irises. How can no one else see these scars? They’re so vividly on display every day, but the way the media—and hell, the whole nation—talks about Mace is as if he’s perfect. The rich boy who’s never had to suffer.

Maybe I can see the pain that lives deep in his bones because I have agony of my own. Our hurt may be different, but while so many sing in harmony, a happy, lovelytune, we sing with dissonance. We don’t see the world through rose-colored glasses. I know how cruelly the world can rip your heart out of your chest, and Mace knows how much rich men can get away with without an arrest.

Injustice is never something I thought we’d share.

Silence fills the space between us. My heartbeat’s pitter-patter screams in my ears. There’s nothing I hate more than quiet, so while I gently hold his chin in one hand, I fill it with nonsense.

“One time in seventh grade, this girl cornered me in the bathroom.” I delicately press the damp cloth to the edge of his mouth, flicking my eyes to meet his and gauge his reaction. He doesn’t recoil. I take that as a good sign. “Apparently, I bumped into her while we were getting off the bus. She didn’t like that. I think I almost peed my pants when I realized she was there to kick my ass, but a teacher came in before anything could happen.” I clean the blood, being careful not to reopen the small wound.

“I was too scared to go to the bathroom after that. So I never did. I ended up with a bladder infection, and that’s when dad transferred me to the private school.” I remember how furious he was when he found out I went four months without using the bathroom for eight hours a day. “I don’t think he realized that the bullying would get worse. I learned to fight back, though.”

Does Mace know he contributed to the isolation at that school? He was never overly cruel, but even back then, the world was at his beck and call. Him seeing me as competition put a target on my back. The girls didn’t like that I received a different sort of attention from Mace.

With the blood clean, I fold the rag over and wipe his forehead, unsure of how to bring back the Mace I’m used to.

He ordered me food when I was having an anxiety attack.

Maybe he’s hungry.

I move to the fridge, Mace’s attention rippling down my arms in a wave of goosefleshed awareness, and force another breath. This is the closest I’ve come to confronting him about how he made my life harder. Since he’s obviously in no shape to hear the criticism, I swallow it and open the fridge. A simple, three-layer cake sits pretty on the middle shelf. Realistic buttercream roses in a deep shade of red lay delicately atop the pleated border. The bottom of the cake is rimmed in pearls, but that’s it. There’s elegance in the simplicity.

Mace either didn’t know this was here or he forgot when Crue showed up. Either way, it was made for us, and it would be a crime to let it go to waste. Cake fixes everything. I carefully take it out and set it on the counter, closing the fridge and grabbing a knife.

Mace shifts.

I look over at him, pointing the knife at him. “Lesson one of our marriage, always eat the cake.”

It’s dumb, but it worked. The edges of his lips twitch. Relief rushes through me. Focusing on the cake, I cut two pieces, grimacing at the lack of symmetry that’ll probably have Chef cursing, and place them on small plates. Red velvet. Did she know that’s my favorite or was it a lucky guess? Equipped with forks, I join Mace at the island and set the plates down in front of us.

Mace studies me so intensely, my chest tightens with worry.

Forcing my gaze away, I take a bite. Subtle chocolaty flavor and the tang from the cream cheese frosting burst across my tongue. The cake is baked to perfection, which isa relief. I don’t know how I’d feel about a chef who bakes a dry cake.

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