: Chapter 29

King slows the vehicle, lifting a hand in a lazy wave to a security guard, as he drives through the open gate into a fancy neighborhood.

“Um, I thought you said we were going out for dinner?” I ask.

We pass more and more houses and when he doesn’t reply, I start to get nervous. “King?”

His head jerks toward me, an intense expression on his face.

“What?” I can’t read his expression.

“I like hearing you say my name.”

My mouth pops open. “I’ve said your name before…”

He shakes his head, turning his attention back to the street ahead of us.

I try to think back. That can’t be true. Is it?

As I scrub my memory, I look out the window, watching more residences pass.

I’m guessing we’re going to Nero’s house, because I can’t imagine anywhere else he’d take me.

I’d already been wondering if there’d be a way for me to escape at a restaurant. But no matter how I cut it, it just didn’t seem possible. I mean, there’s always the possibility that he’s lying about the cops being in his pocket, or that his enemies would try to get me. The whole enemy talk still blows my mind, though I did see him kill a guy… But on the off chance I did find a way out, I decided to dress practically. So, for our dinner out, I put on my shimmery gold palazzo pants, with a black, low-cut, ruffle-sleeved tank. Paired with a pair of cute all black tennis shoes, good for running. And since it was the first time in two days that I was able to, I did my make up and put my hair up into a high ponytail.

I might have a small enough wardrobe that it all fits into two suitcases, but my experience with showings art galleries means I have some nice pieces to wear. Which is good, because King––my freaking husband––always looks like a million bucks.

Probably because he is a millionaire.

My eyes slide over to him as I think about the things he’s told me.

Maybe he’s more than a millionaire.

The tires bump as King pulls into a driveway. In a normal situation I’d feel a little over-dressed for a dinner at a friend’s house, but based on the house we just pulled up to, I probably should’ve worn high heels.

King doesn’t say anything, just parks and turns off the engine, before climbing out.

Following his lead, I unbuckle and open the door.

King’s already at my side when I climb out, and as we walk up the brick sidewalk, leading to the front door, King places his hand on my back.

“I think it’s important for you to know that Aspen knows Leland is dead.” King’s words fill me with unease, and I try to slow, but his hand keeps propelling me along. “After we left your friend Mandi’s house, I dug into his life, at Aspen’s request, which is how I found his apartment. But I also found that he’d been compiling what he thought was evidence against me, and against The Alliance. I don’t know what he planned to do with his shitty information, he didn’t have any contacts anywhere that I can find, but that, combined with the cheating, meant he had to go.”

My mouth has gone completely dry.

We stop at the front door, and King leans forward to ring the doorbell. “I’m telling you this because, for the sake of the other guests, Aspen is going to pretend that Leland is out of town on business. And I want you to know that she’s aware of the truth.”

I can hardly hear him over the beating of my own heart. Adrenaline spiking in my veins.

“Whose house is this?” I whisper.

But before he can reply, the front door opens.

“Hello, sister.” King greets Aspen.

Her smile, which was brittle to start with, shatters when she sees me. “What,” she drops her volume and steps through the doorway. “What is she doing here?”

I try to back up, not wanting to get sprayed by her venom, but King doesn’t let me go. Sliding his hand further around to my side.

“Sorry,” King doesn’t sound sorry at all. “I assumed the dinner invite included my wife.”

“Wife?!” Aspen screeches, then slams her lips shut, looking over her shoulder.

Oh, sweet baby Jesus, he didn’t tell her we got married.

“Did I forget to mention that?”

I want to hit him.

I want to hit him so hard.

But I also want to throw up. Throwing up might be my new thing.

“Everything okay out there, dear?” a woman’s voice calls from within.

With murder in her eyes, Aspen’s tone flips to pleasant as she calls back, “Of course! Just my brother and his new bride.” She changes back to a whisper, this time aiming her daggers at King. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

I glance up to see him smirk. “How? I’m the one you call when you want that particular task done.”

Her lips thin before she snaps, “I’ll get Nero to do it.”

King laughs, “Good luck with that.”

The whole exchange has me chewing on my lip so hard, I’m surprised it’s still attached.

Aspen turns her glare back to me, her nostrils flaring. “The people here are major donors of mine, try not to be a total whore around them.”

I drop my eyes before she finishes speaking, but it doesn’t lessen the disgusting feeling in my gut. I never slept with her husband, but I did go out with him.

“Aspen.” King’s tone is pure warning. “Watch your mouth.”

Her chest heaves, twice, then she plasters a Stepford smile on her face and spins away, leaving the door open for us to follow.

King taps his fingers against my side. “Well, that went better than expected.”

“Better?” I hiss, even as he guides me inside. “I’m going to help her kill you.” I keep my voice down, aware that these grand entryways echo like crazy. “I can’t believe you didn’t––”

I don’t get to finish because a gray-haired woman appears around the corner ahead of us waving her hands in a come here motion. “King! What a lovely surprise!”

“Mrs. Lucking, how nice to see you.” King sounds completely normal, and I wonder if he’s just as unhinged as his sister.

Thinking about the way Aspen can turn her smiles on and off gives me the creeps.

The woman reaches us, and King leans down to kiss her cheek.

She’s probably old enough to be his mother but she still blushes. And I get it.

“Now what’s this I hear about a wife?” Her gaze moves to me, and her smile only grows. “Oh, aren’t you stunning!”

Now I’m blushing, which is probably better than the I’m going to be ill look I’m sure I was sporting a few seconds ago.

“This is Savannah,” King put his arm back around my shoulders and presses a kiss to the top of my head.

His action is followed by a shatter, and I glance past the woman, into the lounge looking room behind her, where Aspen is standing over a dropped martini glass.

“Oh my,” another woman hurries over, waving her hands. “Are you alright?”

Aspens waves her off with a smile. “Just being clumsy today.”

Mrs. Lucking is looking at me, and I realize I’m probably pale again, since I’m picturing Aspen picking up one of those shards and jabbing it into my heart.

I try to smile and say I’m fine at the same time. But just end up opening my mouth and a garbled Eine is all that comes out.

King clears his throat––and I swear to god, if he’s smothering a laugh, I’m going to smother him while he sleeps.

“Let’s take this as a sign and move into the dining room,” Aspen chuckles, and the two women nod their agreement before calling their husbands over. I hadn’t noticed the pair standing together on the far side of the room, but they stroll over amiably enough.

“Come, come.” Mrs. Lucking grips my arm and starts hauling me back across the main hallways and into an impressive room.

The evening sun rays are filtered through gauzy curtains, and the shades of white and taupe covering the room give the space a museum quality. It’s lovely.

A woman in a catering uniform hurries past us, to set another place at the table. Since no one was expecting me.

The two older couples take seats facing each other. And when Mrs. Lucking insists King sit next to her, he pulls me down into the open seat next to him.

Aspen strides into the room, new drink in hand, and takes the last open place setting across from King.

Me being here makes it an odd number, so I’m the only one staring at an empty chair. It might be rude, by polite standards, for King to put me on the end like this. But I will be forever grateful, hoping I can just melt into obscurity for the next hour.

Servers fan into the room, setting salads in front of each of us, and filling the glasses with red wine.

I debate the merits of getting drunk, as I bring the glass to my lips. Maybe it would be a good thing? Then again, maybe if I’m drunk, I’ll say something I absolutely shouldn’t. Like about how the host’s husband is dead and probably buried in the woods, or at the bottom of a lake. Or how I’m here against my will…

But these people don’t know me. They won’t help me. Not to mention they’d never believe me.

The sweet red liquid hits my tongue, and it tastes so good, I want to roll my eyes. But I only get through half the roll, when my body stops functioning. Because there, right fucking there, on the wall behind Aspen, is my painting.

He didn’t.

Rather than try to swallow the wine––positive I’d choke instead––I tip my head down, letting the wine pour from my mouth and back into the glass.

I glance to the side, making sure no one saw me. But since my luck is nonexistent, I lock eyes with Aspen.

“How’s your wine, Savannah?” Her knife scrapes against her plate as she says it, cutting through a piece of endive.

“G––” I clear my throat. “It’s good. Thank you.” I hurry to set the glass down, dropping my eyes to my salad.

I can feel King turn to look at me, probably wondering why Aspen would voluntarily speak to me, but I can’t look at him. Not now.

Seeing that painting… It’s too much.

Every day I feel like I’m encountering a whole new level of too much.

My chest starts to restrict, making it hard to inhale.

That damn painting, it started all of this.

My all-white rendition of Michelangelo’s David. It’s just his bust. Shoulders, neck and head. But the statue is so famous, that’s all you need. And it was my first time playing with a monochromatic palette in whites.

I pick up my fork and push the vegetables around on my plate.

It was my last show. I was nervous––because I’m always nervous––and this friendly, nice-looking gentleman, sought me out. Wanting to speak to the artist.

He said all the right things. Told me how the palette choices spoke to him. How his mother was such a fan of Michelangelo, how he was raised hearing all about art, all the time. So, when he asked to purchase the all-white piece, the one Mandi had convinced me to list for twice as much as the others, I swooned. And when he asked me for my number, I gave it to him.

Then, three dates later, his wife’s brother murders him, I’m kidnapped, and now I’m sitting here, married to his killer, and staring at my painting, as it hangs on the wall behind his widow.

Conversation continues around me, but my brain is too overwhelmed to make sense of any of it.

How do these people act like everything is fine?

A hand enters my vision, startling me so much I drop my fork onto the small china plate.

“Pardon, ma’am,” the server dips their head, before picking up my untouched first course and replacing it with a steaming plate of risotto and roasted chicken.

It smells amazing, and my stomach wars with itself between feeling sick and starving.

Cici made us breakfast sandwiches this morning, which I carefully ate in King’s vehicle, but that was a long time ago.

I scoop up some of the creamy rice and place it in my mouth right as Mrs. Lucking leans against the table to look around King at me. “So how did you and your new hubby meet?”

The food turns to ash in my mouth, and I want to spit it out. But that would draw even more attention to me, and I want nothing more than to be left alone.

I hold up a hand, indicating that I need a moment to finish what’s in my mouth before I answer.

King takes that moment to lean back and rest his arm on the back of my chair. “Through a mutual friend actually. A dinner party.” He grins. “Kinda like this.”

“Isn’t that nice,” the woman coos. “And you said it was recent?”

King’s hand slides to my shoulder, and I finally swallow my risotto. “Yesterday,” I choke out.

“Yesterday!?” the other woman nearly shouts. “And you’re not on your honeymoon. Shame on you.” She directs that last sentence at King.

“Soon,” he promises. “Just need to find the perfect place.”

The subject changes to favorite vacation destinations and King thankfully sits forward, blocking me from the rest of the guests, as he talks about his last trip to Italy.

I chance a glance at Aspen, and for once, she’s not looking at me. But there’s a muscle jumping in her cheek, hinting at continued annoyance.

I manage to get another few bites of risotto down before another disaster of a question is asked.

“It looks different in here,” the man at the far corner of the table notices. “Have you redecorated since we were over last?”

This time I don’t drop my fork, I just lower it.

“We did,” Aspen replies, and I try not to flinch at her using the word we. “It felt like time for a little refresh.”

“Well, you did a wonderful job. The monochromatic look is really in right now.”

The man’s wife looks at me, “He’s an interior designer.” As if it needs explaining that he knows about color.

“Oh,” is my brilliant response.

My eyes dart back up to my painting, and I slide my chair back.

“You alright, Honey?” King’s palm lands on my thigh.

“Yep,” I squeak out. “I just need to use the restroom.” I pause before rising. “Could you tell me where?”

“I’ll show you.”

“No, not necess––” I start.

“Excuse us for just a moment,” King says to the group. “I’ve neglected to properly show my wife where everything is here.”

Even though everyone is dressed to the nines, the atmosphere is fairly casual, so no one seems bothered by the interruption.

I hurry out of my chair, and out of the room, ahead of King.

His long strides catch him up to me, and the palm I’m getting way too used to, presses into the small of my back.

“This way,” he guides me to the left.

He doesn’t say more, and neither do I, as he shows me to an elegant powder room.

I’m pissed at him right now. For bringing me here. For not warning me. For not warning Aspen. But still…his presence is comforting. Though that’s probably just because he’s the only person I know here. And I’m not counting Aspen. Because the way we know each other is definitely a detriment, not a comfort.

“Thank you,” I say, my manners getting the best of me, as I step into the bathroom and close the door behind me.

I don’t really have to pee, but I go anyway. Not wanting the urge to sneak up on me and have to get up again in twenty minutes. But at this point, I guess who cares if everyone ends up thinking I have a UTI.

I take my time washing my hands, turning the water all the way cold, hoping it will shock some life into me.

When I finally open the door, I jump.

“Oh my god,” I slap a hand to my chest, the skin-on-skin noise louder than I expected, drawing King’s gaze down.

“If you end up with a handprint across the top of your tits, we’re gonna have some explaining to do.” The edge of his mouth tips up, then he steps toward me.

“What are you doing?”

He lifts a brow, “When in Rome.”

“Huh?” Then I get it. “Oh.” I move out of the way, and King steps into the bathroom.

When the door shuts, I debate my options. Stand here in silence or go back into the viper’s den by myself.

I stay. Obviously.

The bathroom door clicks open a minute later, and I’ve used the time to practice slow breathing. Not that it’s helped to calm me any.

King stops in front of me, looking down at me with those beautiful gold eyes, and I ball my hand into a fist and punch him in the chest.

He catches the back of my hand before I pull it away, keeping it pressed to his body. “Now, what was that for?”

“I’ll give you one guess?” I snap at him, trying to keep my voice down.

His free hand darts out, gripping the base of my ponytail, tipping my head back until I’m looking him in the eye. “I know this doesn’t seem ideal––”

“Ideal?!”

He gives me a patronizing look, that makes me want to punch him again. “I know this doesn’t seem ideal, but you two need to learn how to get along.” When I open my mouth to retort, he tugs the tiniest amount on my hair. It doesn’t hurt, not at all. But it does work to shut me up. “Think about it, Honey. Without appearances to keep her in-check, Aspen would throw a righteous fit at seeing you. And you,” he smirks, “well, you’d eventually get fed up and probably throw a statue at her.”

“I would not,” I grumble.

He leans in closer. “I don’t believe you.”

“King, it’s not just her.” I try to get him to understand with my eyes, but his harden instead.

“If you’re about to tell me that you still love him, we’re going to have a problem.”

“Love him!?” I splutter, then swing out with my free hand, aiming for where I hope his nipple is. King doesn’t so much as grunt at the contact. “That’s not what… The jerk bought––”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt,” one of the husband’s, not the designer, appears in the hallway.

Oh, goodie.

Of course, King just grins. Pretending this isn’t a super awkward position to be caught in. “You know how it is.”

I swear the older man blushes as he chuckles. “It’s been a bit since the missus and I were newlyweds, but maybe that honeymoon ain’t such a bad idea.”

King finally releases my ponytail, smoothing his hand down the back of my head until it’s on my neck. “Not a bad idea at all.”

Accepting that as our cue to go, we move to the side of the hall and let the man pass, before heading back to the dining room.

I was trying to tell King about the painting, but now it seems like maybe the best course of action is denial. Pure, complete denial.

Love him?

What a ridiculous question.

But even so, why did the idea bother King so much?

Aspen shoots a glare our way as we enter, but I look away before I can be burned by it.

Sliding back into my seat, I focus my attention on slicing the now cold chicken into little bits.

“Brother?”

I glance up at Aspen’s question, to find King still standing. Standing in front of his chair, like he was about to sit. And he’s staring straight ahead, at the painting hanging on the opposite wall, right at his eye-level.

Oh, fuck me.

“That’s quite the work of art.”

At his comment, all eyes in the room turn to look. And my soul withers and dies.

I was so proud of that piece. I loved it so damn much.

But now… I don’t love it anymore. And it breaks my heart.

“Thank you,” Aspen’s tone is wary. “Leland bought me that for our anniversary last month. It’s what inspired the remodel.”

I dare a glance at King, but not a scrap of humor is visible. All that’s left is the terrifying coldness of a killer.

But maybe I’m the only one who notices it, because the rest of the table starts discussing the painting, my painting, paying King’s behavior no mind.

“Where is that husband of yours, anyway?” someone asks.

And my ears are ringing so loudly, I almost miss Aspen’s answer. “Oh, he’s out of town for work. Couldn’t drag him home if I tried.”

The woman tuts, as the designer stands up to inspect my piece.

He makes comments about composition. Texture. The juxtaposition of style and subject.

My poor heart sinks.

To hear someone talk so positively about my work, completely unguarded… That’s something special.

But right now, it just feels like a whole new brand of torture.

King slowly lowers himself into his seat.

His head turns in my direction, and I brace myself. But he doesn’t meet my eyes, he just slides my plate closer to me and says, “Eat your food.”

I don’t want to. I really don’t want to. But I also don’t want to be told twice. So, while the rest of the room discusses art, I clear my plate. Only barely stifling a groan when the servers come back and replace the entrée plates with small dishes of peach cobbler, topped with ice cream. It’s one of my favorite desserts, and I swear, if tonight ruins one more thing for me, I’m going to just start screaming.

“Coffee?” a server asks.

“Oh god no.” I reply, before I can think better of it. “Sorry,” I grimace, when I realize everyone has stopped to look at me. “I’d be up all night.”

It’s mostly true. But it’s more the fact that I don’t want to be awake for this day a single second longer than I have to.

The final course passes with King and I eating in silence while Aspen talks about some upcoming charity event with her guests. It seems weird, Aspen being charitable, but I suppose people with this much money need hobbies.

When the chatter of we should probably head home starts, I could weep with joy.

Rising at the same time as King, I do my best to act like a happy new wife, promising to come to whatever event it is they’re talking about.

With his palm against my spine, we follow the group to the front door. And I think we’re finally ready to escape. I think that we’re about to get out, without any more drama. Without Aspen knowing the dark history behind her anniversary gift. But, as I’m about to step through the threshold, King grips the material of my shirt stopping me.

“I’ll be just one moment.”

I spin around, away from the door I want to sprint through. “King. Don’t.”

But he doesn’t listen, he just strides back through the house.

“What have you done?” Aspen hisses, scaring the shit out of me.

“Christ!” I take a step backwards, clutching my hands to my chest. I thought she was still outside saying goodbye to people. “I haven’t done anything!”

Maybe now is when I should scream I never fucked your husband. But somehow, I don’t think she’ll believe me. No matter what I say. No matter what the truth is.

Aspen continues to glare at me, until her attention snaps to King, who’s striding back down the hall toward us, with my painting tucked under his arm.

“What the hell are you…” Aspen starts, before turning wide eyes on me. “SJO.” She breathes out the initials I sign all my paintings with, proving that she liked it enough to memorize the signature. “You put your fucking art in my home.”

The anger in her tone is laced with hurt. And I want to apologize. Or cry. Or do anything. But I don’t. I just stand there.

“Savannah didn’t do shit,” King growls. “But this is mine now.”

Stomping past his sister, King grabs my arm and drags me away from the woman who looks like she’d love to turn me into a corpse.