Page 91 of Shadows of Steel
Marta.
Standing beside a group of women, immaculate, poised, every inch the picture of refinement, she washes her hands, as though utterly unaware of my presence.
But I know better.
Because she speaks. Just loud enough for me to hear.
“Last night was intense.” She muses.
My hands still.
“Dante was insatiable, as always.” She sighs dramatically. “It’s been this way for years. He always comes back to me.”
My blood runs cold. One woman beside her shifts uncomfortably, darting me an apologetic glance. Marta smirks, eyes gleaming with cruel delight.
“That wife of his? She’s nothing more than temporary.” She flicks her hair over one shoulder, her tone effortlessly dismissive. “He’ll grow bored soon enough. He always does.”
My fingers tighten around the edge of the sink, knuckles paling with restraint.
Bitch.
I remain composed.
I do not engage.
I do not grant her the satisfaction.
But inside, rage burns like an inferno. I can feel Marta watching me, waiting for a reaction. She’s playing a game, one I refuse to lose.
So I take my time. Slowly, I reach into my clutch and pull out my red lipstick. I twist it up, the deep crimson catching the light as I drag it across my lips, never breaking eye contact with her reflection.
When I’m satisfied, I snap the lid back on, tuck it into my bag, and turn to face her.
My smile is slow, wicked.
“So, I wouldn’t call myself insecure,” I start casually, feigning thoughtfulness. “I mean, after all… he’s the one that insisted.”
Marta’s smug expression falters. She blinks. “What?”
I tilt my head, tapping a manicured finger against my chin. “Oh, he was quite insistent. Almost to the point of begging, really.” I sigh theatrically. “I know, I know, he doesn’t seem the type. But, as it turns out, appearances can be deceiving.”
Marta’s brows knit together, confusion flickering across her face. “What the hell are you talking about?”
I smile. “Why, about getting his privates locked, of course.” I wink, my voice effortlessly smooth as I add, “With a key and everything.”
A stunned silence settles over the room. The other women exchange wary glances, while Marta’s expression twists between disbelief and mounting irritation.
I continue, relishing every second.
“To be perfectly clear,” I say, my tone dripping with faux sympathy, “my husband practically begged me to have his dick locked up. To prove himself to me.”
With unhurried elegance, I gesture toward my clutch, as if retrieving something of great importance. “I have the key right here.” My gaze sweeps over her, assessing. "I don’t presume you have one, do you?"
Marta’s lips part, but no words escape.
I tilt my head, feigning curiosity, my expression the picture of innocent inquiry. “No? Then it would seem this grand tale of yours is nothing more than fiction. How unfortunate.”
Still, she remains silent.
