“You’ll answer to whatever name I give you, Mrs. Zimin.”
“Smith,” she corrects, lifting her chin. Her face is puffed up, her mascara smeared and skin flushed. Her hazel eyes are defiant, though, and I’m equal parts pissed and intrigued. “My name is Russet Smith and the very least you can do is make sure it’s on my tombstone.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I demand, confused fury pumping through my veins. “Stop saying shit like that.”
Tears leak from her eyes, but she doesn’t turn away. “Elijah thinks he played me.”
“Stop saying his name,” I growl.
She ignores me. “But you know my favorite part about Thursday nights?”
“Shut. Up.”
“When he leaves.”
What?
Her eyes shine with unshed tears. “He always leaves an hour before you get home. For one hour, I get the place to myself. I watch my shitty TV shows and I don’t have to hide from Olga and I can. . . breathe.”
Right now I can’t, though.
She’s shaking. Some dark monster slices her from the inside out. I’ve always known I’m that monster. But I’m just now realizing what I’m doing to her.
I school my face blank and ensure my voice is uncaring and cold. “Did you want me to be impressed? You think you outplayed us both, my brother and I?”
Her lips part, her eyes questioning my response.
“Grow up, Russet.”
She blinks.
“You shake your ass when you want me to fuck you. Learn how to speak up when you want some alone time.”
“Coming from the man who never speaks?” She quietly accuses.
I can’t stand whatever this is. Picking myself up, I leave the shivering doll on the floor. My used, broken doll.
I’m almost to the foyer when I turn back. “You said you’d been slapped around.”
She freezes, then blinks, trying to wipe her face blank.
“Russet.” I step back into the living room. “Why did you stay that?”
She tries to shrug it off, but the involuntary shiver and the way her head bends down tell me there’s more to the story.
So in a voice kissed with death I ask, “Who slapped you around?”
CHAPTER 17
Russet
For a week Maxim and I float around one another.
I expected the eventual fallout from Elijah’s pizza dates. Not that I’d tell my husband that’s how I refer to them.
They were coming to an end anyway, with only a few weeks left in Max’s semester. I hadn’t thought about it much because I didn’t want to admit how much I’d miss them. It’s not just the greasy, cheesy goodness of the pizza. Or the way Elijah humors my reality TV show addiction.
The only thing I’ve wanted my whole life is to have a home. Not the crappy, piece of shit house I grew up in. Where the electricity shut off on a regular basis and I hid from the men my mother brought home.
