Page 23 of Vicious Secrets
“Do you want help with your dress?” he asks as he takes my shoes off.
Despite my weakened state and wanting to be a million miles away from him, I’m not keen on letting Siro feel comfortable tonight.
“Why did you wait so long to lose your virginity?”
Siro lets out a long exhale. “I’m a workaholic.”
“Aren’t all made men workaholics?”
His eyes narrow for a second. “No.”
“So, why?”
“I hate being touched.”
My heart sinks. Empathy attempts to seep past the anger swirling in my gut. Isn’t it a good thing that my monster of a husband loathes physical contact? Why do I feel for him?
I blink at him. “But you initiated. Twice.”
“My dick’s not broken. My head is,” he growls.
My intuition tells me the anger in his tone isn’t for me. It’s directed at himself.
My lips curl into a sneer. “So you’ll want to fuck me again? What if I don’t want to fuck the man who planned to slaughter me?”
Siro’s eyes flick up to my face, and his throat bobs. “Then you’ll never get fucked again.”
I sit up and shove at his chest. Siro doesn’t fall back as much as he steps back. I skitter away to the bathroom.
“Robyn—”
“Fuck off!” I scream. My voice bounces off the tiles, morphing my words into unintelligible, high pitch echoes.
I pace about the bathroom, raking my fingers through my hair as my emotions violently flip-flop.
Just over my shuddering breaths, I hear a lock click in place.
Siro
“Shutthefuckup.”I point at Fabi as I round the corner from the hall into the living room.
He sits like a statue in an armchair facing the foyer. Even if he were made of marble, I’d still strongly consider punching the smug look off his face. The soldier doesn’t blink at me. I can’t even tell if the fucker is breathing. But I know what he’s thinking.
I head straight for the liquor cabinet. I’ve already drank more tonight than is usual for me, but it’s the only thing I can think to do to keep my hands busy. I take a swig directly from the whiskey bottle. The burn in the back of my throat is only a tickle compared to the fire in my veins.
I don’t make mistakes. I’m a man who loves data as much as he loves violence. For the fourth time since my wedding, I’ve fucked up, and the onslaught of instantaneous regret is making me nauseous.
I should have told Robyn the day I met her in the ER. She has every right to know what kind of man her stepfather tethered her to and why. Clearly, she knew of the threats but not where they came from.
I suck down another gulp and turn to face the peanut gallery. Fabi is a much easier, but not nicer, heckler than Vittore. Resting back against the bar top, I rub my face with one hand.
“I’m going to have Ari meet me at Oscar’s. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
Fabi turns the chair to face me. “Or you can watch your wife, and I’ll go with Ari.”
“No. Oscar owes me an explanation and a cut of flesh.”
“And your wife needs to be reassured you won’t kill her. Cutting up her stepfather for withholding information isn’t going to do that.”
