Page 46 of Hateful Vows
It’s not subtle, but neither am I.
Every single day, I will remind my wife who she belongs to. And when I can’t, this will do it for me.
“DANTE!!!”
“I think the boys need me at the… Okay, see you later,” Tino says before leaving in a hurry at the bellowing cry of Irina bringing the house down the next morning.
“Coward.”
I smile, waiting for my wife to show up. Then I blanch when I see the gun in her hand and her taking aim at me. “Shit!”
A bullet zings past my head and hits the wall plaster behind me. I avoid it by a few inches and duck behind the kitchen counter.
“Face me, you coward,” Irina yells, red-faced and glorious.
I take hold of a metallic tray in one of the bottom drawers, using it as a shield. My wife is a fucking sniper. She doesn’t miss. The fact that I’m not dead already has me laughing and it sends her into a rage. I hear her steps and move around the kitchen island, keeping cover and peeking up to see where she is. Another bullet darts past my head, embedded in the metal of the fridge. Close call but not close enough. She’s not trying to kill me.
Yet.
I think.
I’m ninety-nine percent sure.
The next bullet grazes my shoulder and I hiss, warm blood dripping against my arm.
Okay, maybe sheistrying to kill me.
And what a way to go. I smile to myself, entranced by the violent woman who slept in my bed and now wears my name on her ring finger. A reminder that she is mine.
“It’s not one sided,vipera,” I say, placating, showing my own hand.
“Not one sided? You branded me, you psycho! I don’t give a shit about what you do with your body.”
Another bullet goes, then the safety clicks. A knife clatters against my makeshift shield, then another, and another. The whole fucking butcher’s block. One ends up on the TV, shattering its screen into thousands of pieces, another sticks out of the back of my priceless designer sofa.
I stand when the assault pauses, and—barely on time—move out of the way of the meat cleaver she throws at me. She’s panting, hair wild and eyes wilder, only wearing… my shirt. I refrain from groaning. I don’t think she’d appreciate what seeing her enraged, and wearing my clothes does to me.
I lift my hand again, showing the ink to her. ‘Property of” on the first knuckle, closer to the back of the palm, ‘Irina Ventura’ on the second one. Making sure her name is visible for everyone to see when I’ll place the ring back on it. Or maybe I’ll just keep it on the other hand, making sure her ownership shines on my skin. I’m proud of it. I know she’ll be proud of hers someday soon.
But not today, given the murderous look she’s still throwing at me.
Her demeanour changes. She stands taller, drawing her shoulders back and holding her chin up in defiance. If that’s not satisfaction, I don’t know what is.
“You gave me the idea last night with your jealousy,vipera. I’ve never tasted anything sweeter,” I tell her as I prowl slowly to her, like she’s an animal on the verge of an attack. Because she is and I need her venom more than I value my life apparently.
She swipes a knife in front of me in menace, but it holds no heat. I approach and let the blade touch my heart. The tip pierces my skin. I hiss and a drop of blood slides down my abdomen. Irina follows its trail intently. Then she licks her lips. And I know I got her.
I seize her mouth, hand clasped at the nape of her neck. The blade tumbles to the floor and she moans into my mouth.
“I hate you.”
I don’t let her say another word, kissing her lips, owning her mouth, sucking on her tongue.
My phone rings. The bubble pops.
I kiss the second skin on her branded finger, trying to convey with my actions how much this means to me.
The screen shows Andrea Capaldi’s name. “Talk to me, old friend.”
