“Come out!” The raspy voice shouted. “You, back there, out!”
Blood spilled from my lifeless mamma, mixing in the puddle she’d slumped into. A scream clawed at my throat, but a cold, heavy rage choked it back. I raised the gun she handed me and cocked the weapon, just as she taught me. What did it matter if I died? I just wanted to hold her hand, wanted her to hear my voice as she breathed her last. I surfaced from the cardboard pile and viewed the man who shot mamma. Knelt on the ground, his chest heaving with sobs. He raised his head, and pure hatred overtook the sadness on his face. Did he at least spy the gun in my hand?
He narrowed his eyes, teeth clenched. “You should have been mine.” He aimed his gun right between my eyes, but his glare soon faded, as though he recognized something he overlooked moments ago. Maybe he spotted the gun, or maybe he hesitated because I was just a kid. First rule mamma taught me… never hesitate.
You should have been mine.
His remark confused me, and I didn’t ask him to elaborate. Like I’d practiced countless times, I aimed the weapon and pulled the trigger. A dark spot in his head oozed blood, and he collapsed to the wet concrete, lifeless.
Gritting my teeth against the vivid memory, a dark calmness settled over me. I stretched out my arms, the tick in my eye betraying my annoyance, yet a bubble of laughter tickled my throat. I fought to repress my smirk, but one stretched across my lips anyway. A twisted, lilting humor laced my voice. “Do you want to shoot me, little wife?”
She clenched the gun in her shaky hands. Not just her hands, her cherry red lips trembled, too. She wore her nerves like a mask, a fragile, defiant mask. Pitiful, almost. I’d bet she’d never used a gun in her life.
She clasped the weapon tighter, her knuckles white. “If you think I’ll let you touch me this night or any other, you’re dead wrong.”
Mannaggia, she paled, almost translucent in the dim light, swaying on the verge of unconsciousness. A strange tightness coiled in my gut. “Drop the gun, Gemma, before you do something stupid.” My voice emerged rougher than intended, a growl born of irritation, not concern.
“I know how to handle a gun.” She cocked the weapon, the click echoing in the room, far too loud. Her brows arched in bold arrogance, but her trembling exposed her faux bravado. This little stunt was almost endearing, had it not been so dangerous. “Back home, Harper and I go target shooting on Thursday nights.” A hint of pride, and perhaps a challenge, rang in her voice.
Another surprise from my dear wife. So, she understood how to work the weapon. Still, a few practice shots didn’t make her a criminal. “You’re not a killer.” My dismissive tone belittled her threat, but doubt, unwelcome and sharp, pricked at me.
“I don’t have to kill you,” she stated matter-of-factly. “Simply injure you so you don’t lay a hand on me.”
A miscalculation. I had intended to stoke the spark I’d seen in her eyes that first night into a different kind of flame, thirsting for the passion I was certain lay beneath. But the woman before me now wasn’t aroused; she was frightened and enraged. And my little game had just put a gun in her hand. “What happens after you shoot? Do you figure on leaving the premises?” My mother would have her dead and buried. The possibility descended over me, heavy and unsettling.
She examined the gun, her gaze lingering on the cold steel, then met my stare. Defeat gleamed in those amber eyes.
Smart woman. Patience gone, I thrust my hand for her to surrender the weapon and snickered. To think she threatened me with my own gun.
Gemma aimed the gun at herself and retreated another step, the barrel snug against her temple.
My heart ceased beating.
Ice. Paralyzing ice shot through my veins. I swallowed, all mirth fleeing in an instant. A sickening lurch bounced in my stomach. In my thirty years, I’d not once experienced this glacial chill to my limbs, this raw, gut-wrenching fear.
“Gemma.” Her name left my lips in a raw whisper, stripped of any pretense or mockery. The cold steel above my ear, the absolute hopelessness—the memory slammed into me, dredging up the darkest hours of my life. Had I brought her to this point, a point of complete despair? “Cut this out. Right now!”
Utter resolve flared in her amber depths. She no longer trembled, but stood dead-still. “Why wait ‘til I crack? Isn’t sending me home broken what your mother wants?” Her pretty face twisted, chin wobbling. “One pull of the trigger, and it ends.”
My jaw constricted, the muscle clenching so tight my face ached. A breakdown? So, she believed our aim was to drive her insane? I’d confronted criminals all my life, stared down barrels of guns, yet never flinched in their presence. But right here right now, her unwavering face threatened me worse than any weapon. “This isn’t funny. Drop the gun.” I tried for sternness, but my voice cracked, betraying me.
“Swear you won’t touch me.” She tilted her chin, and the gun slid across her temple, the sickening sight robbing me of breath.
She had the nerve to lay down ultimatums with her life on the line. I’d keep my hands to myself, tonight or any other night. Unless she wanted me. Force intimacy on a woman?Mai. A betrayal of everything I stood for. Seeing her yield, watching her walls crumble, tempting her to acknowledge the undeniable spark between us—there lay the victory. I wanted her to choose me. And yes, I relished the idea of her venting her anger on me between the sheets. I had pushed too hard, too soon, the fire too much to bear, threatening to consume us both.
“I won’t touch you.” The words tasted like ash on my tongue, a surrender I never bargained for. Her slender curves, the defiance in her eyes, urged me to choose my words with care. The day neared when she’d want me in return, so I added a desperate addendum. “Unless you ask me to.” A pathetic attempt to salvage some control, some semblance of my plan.
“I.won’t.ask.you.” She spat out each syllable, loud enough to pummel the words through my thick skull. “Got it, psychopath?”
Loud and clear. She’d just negotiated her own life. Negotiated… and won. What kind of woman did I marry? “I said I wouldn’t.” My heart hammered away in my ribcage, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden silence. “Now hand me the gun.”
She lowered the weapon, and with surprising care, flicked the safety, then relinquished the gun.
My tense muscles abated, slow and reluctant, as if expecting her to change her mind. I slipped the weapon back into my pocket. The weight of the steel felt different now, tainted. I cupped her neck, my trembling fingers shoving her face close to my own.
Heavy breathing expelled through my nostrils. Her floral perfume calmed me, considering I could be smelling the rusty scent of blood if this had all gone the other way. “Don’t you ever pull a stunt like that again.” My command sounded grated, hoarse, laced with more than anger. I swore I’d aged another twenty years in those few minutes.
She squirmed, uneasy by our proximity, but didn’t back away as before. “You promised….”
