Page 74 of Precious Hazard

I stop in my tracks.

How in the world did my housekeeper get the preposterous idea that I’m in love with my wife? That’s ridiculous. No, wait. I guess it makes sense. We have been pretending to be a happy couple whenever there are other people around. Our little act must be convincing.

“Has she eaten the stew I made her?”

“Oh… um… no. No, she didn’t. Mrs. DeVille ordered burgers instead.”

The muscle in my jaw ticks. My wife would still rather eat crappy takeout than a homemade meal.

“I’m sure she wasn’t trying to hurt your feelings, sir. Mrs. DeVille probably just doesn’t like lamb. She doesn’t seem to be a fan of the carbonara either, because she didn’t eat the pasta you left for her yesterday. I uh, served her a grilled cheese sandwich instead, and she practically licked the plate.”

Suddenly feeling none of my earlier mirth, I cross the living room until I’m standing arm’s length from Greta. “As of tomorrow, you are not to prepare any more food for my wife. Is that clear?”

“Oh. If you say so, Mr. DeVille.”

“I do say so. And let the gate guards know that all food deliveries are strictly forbidden. If the delivery person loiters in place, tell security to shoot like the bastard is trespassing. Is that clear?”

“Crystal clear, sir. No food deliveries whatsoever.”

“Good,” I bark as I head up the stairs.

“Oh, Mr. DeVille,” Greta calls from the front door. “I forgot to tell you… It’s a bit chilly tonight, so I lit Mrs. DeVille’s fireplace. I hope she enjoys waking up to a toasty room and the pleasant sounds of a crackling fire.”

Uh-huh. I don’t give a fuck about what Mrs. DeVille enjoys.

My ass is dragging. It’s a struggle to muster the strength to take a shower and slap a new dressing on my shoulder wound. Even though I’m completely wrecked, I feel the need to steal a quick look at Tara before I hit the sheets. After sliding open theconnecting door between our rooms, I prop my good shoulder on the doorjamb and simply watch my wife sleep, bathed in the warm, flickering glow of the fireplace.

If Tara and I agree on anything, it’s that what happened the other night was a mistake. But hers wasn’t the same as mine. I don’t know what came over me. Why I couldn’t keep my desire at bay. Maybe I did have too much to drink when she took care of my wounds. Actually, there’s no fucking “maybe” about it. That shit stung like hell. I drank more than enough to get wasted, and that’s what made me lose my grip on my control.

The maniacal urge to taste my little hellcat swept through me like a fiery storm. My blood boiled with the need to possess her. Lungs burned with the desire to steal her breath. I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since that evening, and yet my head is still spinning from the half a bottle of whiskey I put away. Better than whiskey dick, I guess.

No such problem in that department. My cock is fucking aching. Jacking off hasn’t helped. I want to taste her. Want to feel her tremble in my arms again. I’m craving her moans, her mewls, her whimpers. The hitch in her breath. Dying to know if I could make her scream my name.

My madness, apparently, runs deeper than sexual yearning. What’s driving me wild goes beyond getting my wife into my bed. There’s this need for me to conquer. To claim her in every possible way. To make sure everybody knows she’s fucking mine, and not just because of some flimsy piece of paper. Not because of the deal we made. She is mine. Mine to hold. Mine to keep. Mine. Even if she doesn’t know it. Doesn’t want it. She’s still mine.

And that’s the shit that’s been running through my mind for days. Jesus. The woman drives me nuts. I really don’t knowwhat the fuck is wrong with me. Staring at Tara from across the room, I seriously doubt I’ll get my answers.

One of her shapely legs has escaped the confines of her duvet, and I can’t help but ogle the milky soft expanse of her skin. I want to explore every single inch of her. With my hands. With my tongue. With my dick. Want to hear her breathy sounds as I pound that tight, soaking-wet pussy of hers. Watch her face while I make her come.

Yeah, touching her was undoubtedly a colossal mistake. Now I know exactly what I’m missing. I should never have let my hands venture anywhere near her pussy. So why, instead of agreeing with her on the “mistake” issue, did it piss me off that she called it that?

Stepping as quietly as I can, I cross the distance to her bed. As usual, she’s tangled up in the blanket, but most of it has slipped down to her waist. How does she manage to get herself so twisted every night? I grab one of the edges and straighten it so it covers her up to her neck. She likes the warmth.

“You’re fucking with my mind,gattina,” I whisper into the darkness and silently leave my wife’s room. My head is killing me, so as soon as it hits the pillow, I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The smell of burning wood. Smoke. So, so much of it that it’s becoming impossible to breathe. I scream. The doorbursts open, and Drago stumbles into the room. With him, an onslaught of heat and a thick, dark cloud.

“Tara!” he shouts as he grabs me off the bed. Even safely in his arms, I can’t stop screaming.

My tiny hands wave madly in front of my face.

My eyes are burning from the smoke, welling up with tears. Somehow, though, I can still see my twin sister. She’s cowering on the other side of the room, her back pressed to a wall. With her little body shaking and horror etched on her sweet baby face, she’s simply standing there. Unmoving. Quiet, as always.

Drago keeps yelling, reaching out for her, but my own wailing is making it hard to hear what he’s saying.

I blink, and everything around me dissolves. We aren’t in our bedroom anymore. And Dina is nowhere I can see her.

“Dina!” I cry out, but only a broken croak escapes my aching throat.

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