I scrub my hand through my hair and try to tamp down my frustration. “No matter how good I am—how good any law enforcement is—a motivated person with sufficient resources can always find a crumb. And a crumb, no matter how tiny, is all they would need to unravel any fake identity. Even with the extra layers we’ve added around you.”
“That’s a bullshit answer.”
“What?” Amy is never this direct, this assertive. Has living on her own under a false identity crushed her natural submissive spirit?Damn. I’ve neglected her.
“It’s not true. Despite the movies and books portraying otherwise, a witness has never been compromised under the federal US marshals program.”
“You’re not under their protection anymore,” I remind her.
She shakes her head. “How many people have you protected as part of your job? How many were you still responsible for when you quit and walked away to come here and wrap me in cotton swaddling because I dared to act as the treasurer for a tiny organization no one has ever heard of? How many victims did you leave behind?”
“None. Just you. You are the only one I’m responsible for.”
Her mouth drops open. She didn’t expect that answer, but it’s true.
“Because you retired.” Her free hand goes to her hip. “Shouldn’t you get an RV and a dog, take up fishing like a normaloldguy?”
I smirk. She really is fighting this. “Shouldn’t you be a little more concerned about being such a sassy sub? I think you know how much I like spanking your ass.”
“I’m not your sub. Not your wife. And not going to fuck you.” She tucks tail and darts into the bathroom before I can respond.
I never brought up fucking.
She did.
I grin. It must have been on her mind. Satisfaction motivates me to leave the bed. A few minutes later, she bursts back out fully dressed with her hair tied in a ponytail.
She slams right into my chest, and I grab that lovely mane of hair, tugging gently until she meets my gaze. “I don’t have to fuck you to be your Dom or your husband. I think we’ve proved that.”
Her pulse races, but she’s not done. “I’m not anyone’s sub. I left that behind in St. Louis.”
“BecauseItold you to.” Because the thought of anyone else’s hands on her made me crazy, and it could’ve been a thread to find her. I wasn’t completely selfish when I insisted she avoid the scene. Not entirely.
“In fact, while you’re here, we should figure out how to get a divorce.”
I jerk, the words slicing right through my guts. I release her hair and step back. I shouldn’t be surprised or even this upset. But I am. She’s already out the door before I can respond. I dig through my luggage to retrieve my toiletries and fresh clothes. I don’t have to address her divorce comment. I’m in charge, and I’ll protect her until I decide it’s safe for me to leave. It’s not about marriage or our D/s relationship. It’s about her safety.
Hell, it’s probably better that she’s pushing me away. A real relationship would be a distraction.
Lies. I’m lying to myself.
After cleaning up, I head downstairs. Leaving her spartan attic room and descending to the second floor is like entering a completely different home. The runners over the warm wood floors and stairs look like Pendleton blankets. Oil-rubbed bronze plaques mark each of the five doors on this level with the room names, like Columbine, Lupine, and Marigold. Creamy paint reflects the warmth of the floors and complements the barnwood-framed prints of Colorado vistas and sunflower fields. It’s upscale but approachable.
A single leather chair is nestled in an alcove near the landing for the stairs that lead to the ground floor. A wrought-iron reading lamp and small round table encourage guests to wait with a book or check out the view through the long, narrow window. I can only imagine the guest rooms if she’s paid this much attention to the details in the hallway. I push back the thin cotton curtain. The single-story house next door has a fenced yard but no indication of a dog. No warnings will be coming from that direction.
The guests’ chatter drifts up the stairs. I make my way down and find Amy in her element.
She’s smiling as she sets out a feast of cut fruit, homemade muffins, and fresh-brewed coffee. Two couples sit at the enormous wooden dining table under three weathered metal drum pendants. The smell of bacon wafts in, and my mouth waters. Amy is a gracious whirlwind of activity, placing platters of food on the sideboard, filling cups, and chatting with the middle-aged couples about their plans. About the time I decide to grab a plate, Sebastian and his mom enter.
“Sit with us,” Sebastian says, tucking a second muffin onto the edge of his plate.
Guilt washes over me. I should be helping Amy, but I don’t know what I’d do, and she won’t even meet my gaze. I follow Sebastian and his mom to a free chair. The other guests look innocent enough. Tourists dressed for fall activities in fancy hiking boots and puffy vests over long-sleeved pullovers. No Midwest, dressed-in-all-black gangsters. At least none that are obvious.
“How long have you been married?”
My coffee goes down the wrong hole, and I sputter. “What?”
Sebastian’s mom tilts her head. “You and Amy are married, right?”
