He entered the room with that irritating smile on his face. I pictured a raged Dante—maniacal, bloody-throated, angry and merciless. Instead, he looked calm. Suit to fit, no strand of hair out of place, he looked perfect.
“What is the reason behind the facial expression, wife?” he said, leaning over me and bending his head with a curious expression.
Wife. f**k. The term caused bile to rise in my throat, caused my skin to crawl with disgust and something I could not call by any other name. But I made my face muddled up, attempting to work this new play. Why was he calm? Was it his manner of murdering me—cutting me to pieces, bit by bit, to bits?
“Really?” I remarked, my gaze on the gun which was in his hip holster. The metal shone in the weak light, a hint of violence that was bound to o
