Page 18 of Vicious Secrets
He tucks his erection away as he storms out of the closet.
What the hell? Did I completely misread his reactions while he ate me out?
“We’re expected to make an appearance in two weeks. Fabi has your credit card. Use it to fill in your wardrobe,” he barks out.
I hop off the island and try to follow the trail of his voice. I quickly find myself completely alone in the penthouse.
“Icouldusesomefriendly advice,” I say as I climb into the backseat of the Mercedes SUV.
Fabi looks at my reflection in the rearview mirror. “About?”
“Your boss.” I click the seatbelt in and shift about, feeling equally trapped by the tight belt and Fabi’s gaze. “We’re supposed to attend a party this weekend. But I pissed him off, like, ten-plus days ago, and at this point, I don’t know how to approach him.”
“Siro doesn’t walk away from an opportunity to confront someone. Anyone.” Fabi pauses and shakes his head. “He’s pissed at himself.”
I frown and pick at an invisible thread on my scrubs to give me something to look at. Fabi drives us home in what’s already become a routine after two weeks, during which I’ve spent more time with my bodyguard than my husband. I’ve done my best to be friendly with Fabi, and I think I’m growing on him. He’s definitely growing on me.
I should be counting my blessings. An arranged marriage to a man who’s never home? It’s ideal. But I wouldn’t say I like the idea of Siro being angry with me.
When we pull up to a light a few blocks from home, Fabi sighs. “There isn’t a trick to approaching him. You either do or don’t.”
I force a smile on my face and nod.
He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “And no, I don’t have a clue why he’s mad. Or why he stormed away.”
“And has avoided me for days.”
He snorts. “I’ve worked with him for eight years. These past two weeks are the first I’ve seen or heard of him going home before midnight.”
Siro has slept in the bed alongside me every night. He joins me after I’ve fallen asleep and is gone before I wake, leaving behind a warm wrinkled spot on the bed. The time apart and phantom warmth makes the what-ifs grow crazier.
I look up at Fabi and study his face. “Maybe I should switch shifts. So I can be awake when he comes home.”
Fabi’s lips press into a thin line. “You do you, but most wives only want to see the public-facing sides of their made men.”
“You personally know I can handle seeing him come home bloody.”
“Alright, fair. But why not ignore it and wake up to, uh, whatever the fuck Siro’s like in the morning.”
I laugh and roll my eyes. “Wouldn’t know. Haven’t seen him in the morning.”
Fabi makes a pensive sound that borders on a grunt. “Siro’s not an idiot, but he’s not a… people person.”
“In other words, he doesn’t know that giving me too much space makes me worry.”
“Yeah, that sounds like the shit he’d do.”
Just like the previous nights, Fabi is my only company for dinner. The topic of my husband doesn’t come up again. Afterward, I spend my time organizing the closet and picking out an outfit for Saturday.
With my three-shift work week complete, I stay up waiting for Siro to come home. My gut tells me if Siro sees the lights on, he won’t come in despite this being his space too. So I spend the time lying in the dark and zoning out.
Shortly after eleven, the bedroom door opens and closes with a quick snap. My stomach leaps into my chest, and the plan I mulled over all evening is kicked out of the window by my sudden anxiety. By the time I roll onto my back, he’s in the bathroom, and the shower’s running.
I sit up in bed and turn on the lamp on my nightstand. When Siro opens the bathroom door, he freezes at the sight of me. His hair is wet and brushed back, pajama pants slung low on his hips, and an angry-looking, partially healed burn runs down his side.
I swing my legs out of bed and pad over to him. Up close, I see it’s not just a burn but a scrape. It looks like he was drug across pavement. I barely touched this part of him on our wedding night, but I would have noticed this even in the dark.
“What happened?” I ask and nod at his side.
