Chapter 13
Thirteen
JULIAN
The closer I get to home, the more my blood simmers with rage.
That son of a bitch just threatened to kill my wife.
And for that, he’s going to suffer. He’s going to suffer for a long, long time, until he begs for me to kill him.
Even then, I’ll keep him alive to make him suffer some more.
I’m itching to get to my office, to fire up the computers and start digging into what Sergei could possibly have on Damien. I’ll be surprised if I find anything at all.
Damien is a ghost. We hear murmurs here and there, but that’s all they are. He’s not stupid enough to come to Vegas.
He’d be dead within ten minutes of stepping foot in our city.
But I’ll do my due diligence and search for anything that might give Carson a lead to bring his nemesis to justice. And by justice, I mean torn into pieces and left in the desert for the critters.
Once I’m home, I walk inside and immediately realize that something is . . . very wrong.
The smoke alarm is going off, and I can smell something burning. Running for the kitchen, I come to a halt and then feel a smile spread over my face as I watch my angel flutter around, opening windows and cursing, her music playing on her phone.
She’s pulled her long hair up into a messy bun on the top of her head. She’s wearing a red tank top that molds over her flawless breasts, along with denim shorts that showcase her perfect ass and legs.
Legs that I want to prop over my shoulders as soon as humanly possible so I can feast on her delectable pussy.
Natasha rushes back to the oven, and with huge black mitts on her hands, pulls a baking dish out and sets it on the stove, then closes the oven, cutting off some of the smoke.
“It’s not supposed to be black,” she mutters, her shoulders drooping with defeat, and I can’t stay away any longer.
“What’s happened?” I ask, startling her.
“I’m sorry.” She shrinks away from me, her eyes widening. “I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry.”
I reach out to run my hand down her arm to soothe her, and she flinches, as if I’m going to hit her.
“Hey, look at me.” She presses her lips together and lifts her pretty blue gaze to mine. “I want you to hear every word I’m about to say. Are you listening?”
She nods sharply.
“I’m never going to lift my hand to you in anger. I will never hit you, punch you, or strike you in any way. You don’t have to be afraid of that when it comes to me.”
“Okay,” she whispers, and then takes a deep, shaky breath. “I tried to make you dinner.”
“I see that.” My lips twitch as I glance over at the dish on the stove and feel something in my chest shift. She was cooking for me. “What was it?”
“Greek casserole.” Her voice is so small again, and I can’t wait for the day that she’s not afraid to speak up to me.
We’ll get there.
“Wait, I made a salad too,” she says with hope springing to life in her eyes. She spins and opens the fridge, then pulls out a bowl and uncovers it.
She wrinkles her nose when she peers inside.
“I don’t know about this.”
Without looking at it, I grab a fork and dig in.
This could kill me.
First of all, it looks like soup. It’s clearly overdressed and incredibly soggy. It tastes like . . . paper.
How my perfect wife managed that, I’ll never know.
“Wait!” She turns to me after cleaning up something off the floor. “You don’t have to eat that.”
“You made it.” I shrug and reach for a big spoon and a plate. “I’ll eat the casserole too.”
“No!” She shakes her head and grabs the spoon and plate from my hands. “You will not eat that.”
I smirk, take the tools from her, and scoop out a big helping of the . . . mess on the stove.
“No, Julian.” She’s staring at my plate in horror. “Please don’t eat it.”
“But you made it for me.”
“And I failed. Horribly. I don’t want you to get sick.” She shakes her head and takes the plate from me, setting it aside. “I’ll learn, I promise.”
Her lower lip trembles, and I pull her into my arms, where she immediately goes stiff as a board.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“I’m hugging you, Angel.” She frowns up at me, and I swear to Christ, a crack the size of Nevada spears through my chest. “Hasn’t anyone ever hugged you?”
Her mouth opens, but she doesn’t say anything, and then she leans into me, her cheek on my chest, and I loop my arms around her and hold her to me.
“It’s our wedding day,” I remind her.
“And I ruined it.”
“No, sweetheart, you didn’t.” I can’t help but smile and run my hand down her back. I think I’ve smiled more today than in the past ten years combined. “I should be taking you out to dinner.”
“I’d like to stay here.”
“You like it here?” I tip her chin up so I can see her face.
“Yeah, I like it.”
“Good. Okay, we’ll stay in. What would you like me to order for you? Anything you want.”
Natasha leans back into me, clinging to me, and I want to burn the fucking world down.
No one has ever hugged my wife.
“Chinese food, please.”
“You got it.” Reluctantly, I let her go so I can pull my phone out and text my men. “What would you like?”
“Sweet-and-sour chicken, combination rice, beef with broccoli, two orders of egg rolls, hot and sour soup”—she narrows her eyes and looks at the ceiling—“I think that’s it.”
“Can I share yours, or should I get my own?”
She smirks at me. “I think it’s plenty for both of us, unless you want something different.”
Shaking my head, I text out the order to Jack, and then I add one last message.
Me: This is for my wife. If it’s not hot and in perfect condition when it arrives, you won’t like my wrath.
Jack: Yes, boss. Should be here in less than an hour.
“There. It’s on the way. Are you okay?”
Natasha sighs and looks over the kitchen. “I’m fine, I’m just sorry that my first try at dinner was such a raging failure.”
“You know, I think we’ll be laughing about this in about twenty years.”
Her lips twitch into a reluctant smile. “You’re right.”
“I have to do some work in my office, but you’re welcome to come in there any time.”
I know that I’ve repeated myself with regard to telling her that she’s welcome wherever I am, but I want her to understand that this is her home. She can go anywhere she wants.
I don’t want her to feel like a guest.
“Okay, I’ll finish cleaning this up, and then I’ll bring dinner into the office, if that’s okay?”
With a smile, I lean in and press my lips to hers. “Perfect. Thank you.”
“I didn’t do anything.” I love it when she whispers like that. It makes my cock harden and my blood simmer.
“Not true.” I don’t ask for permission when I push my hands over her hips and sink into her lips, and she doesn’t flinch away from me. She makes that sexy-as-fuck whimpering noise in the back of her throat as she opens to me, inviting me in for more, and I take it.
I’ll take anything this amazing woman is willing to give me.