King of Obsession (Hand of Revenge #3)

Chapter 1

“Somebody That I Used to Know” - Gotye

Saylor

Do all men take this long to shit? Standing outside the bathroom, the only room in the whole flat with a door, I knock. “You’re going to be late,” I call through the thin wood.

Nate mutters something incomprehensible.

I move into the kitchen and pop open the ibuprofen bottle, then shake a few into my hand and toss them back. I’m washing them down with tap water when he finally emerges, forty-five minutes after retreating inside. I bite my tongue before a passive-aggressive “finally” can slip out.

He slings his deployment bag over his shoulder, eyes on the phone in his hand. “Guess this is it, then.”

“I guess so.” I edge around the kitchen counter.

He looks good in his uniform, almost exactly like he did when we first met a few years ago. Tall, close-cropped brown hair, blue eyes that promise the world. Over his shoulder I spot our wedding photo, taken on the steps of the courthouse. Just two fools who thought love could conquer all.

As if reminding me, a stab of pain shoots through my mouth. “Before you go—” I say.

He glances up from the screen, trying to mask his irritation, but I catch a glimpse of it behind that cool veneer.

“This toothache is getting worse. Is there enough in the bank to cover a dentist visit?”

He blinks twice, then lets out a mocking chuckle. “You have a job. Two, actually.”

My lips part in surprise, an old instinct that hasn’t fully worn off yet. I swallow the bile I feel rising in my throat. “I work for a nonprofit. It doesn’t exactly pay well.”

He slips his phone into his pocket and shifts his bag higher on his shoulder. “And whose choice is that?”

“Nate,” I say as he heads for the front door.

He stops with his hand on the knob but doesn’t turn around.

“It’ll probably just be a few hundred,” I add.

His fingers turn white as they clench the gaudy brass handle. “Yeah, well I don’t have a few hundred.”

I cross my arms over my chest, unable to help myself. “Don’t tell me the last paycheck is already gone.”

Finally, he turns, but only to glare at me. “That’s my money, okay?” He points a finger at my chest. “I work hard for it. I don’t just play around on social media all day.” The corner of his mouth rises in a sneer. “If you want money to see the dentist, maybe you should get a real job.”

I should be used to the pain of his words by now, but it still manages to catch me off guard as it slams into me. Squeezing my arms tighter around my midsection, I fill my voice with ice. “My work is important.”

“Yeah, making a bunch of losers feel better about themselves.”

“When did you become such an asshole?”

He narrows his eyes and pretends to think about this. “Maybe around the time I married you.”

I clench my jaw tightly, stifling the tears that badly want to spring up. He’s right, and we both know it. Neither of us was like this before. The last three years have been hellish, tolerable only when he’s on tour. Which he has been most of the time, fortunately.

“I’m sorry, babe.” Dropping his pack onto the floor, he strides toward me. His long legs eat up the space in two steps. He pulls me into his arms and, not caring that I’m still stiff as a board, just tucks my head beneath his chin. “That was shit of me to say.”

Something melts inside me, draining away the animosity. For just a second, I allow myself to imagine the old Nate, the one I fell in love with at twenty-one. Back when I was a stupid girl who decided to get married because she thought she’d found someone who wanted the same things from life as her.

I sniff the rough fabric of his uniform where it’s scratching my cheek. We met when he was on leave, started writing letters like we were in a Nicholas Sparks movie, and visited the courthouse the next time he was home, without having spent any real time together.

There’s something intoxicating about young love. It convinces you that you’re the only two people in the world to ever have experienced these emotions, that no one could possibly have felt the way you do before now, because if they had, how would they ever have gotten anything done?

I lean away from him, letting my hands run along his arms before dropping them at my sides. “Take care.” My words are soft, but they are sincere. As much as I don’t enjoy living with my husband, I don’t want anything to happen to him.

“I will.” He straightens his shoulders, his hand hesitating in the air as if he plans to tuck my hair behind my ear. At the last second, he brings it back down. “You too.”

Pain bleeds through me. How did we end up here? I can still smell the bath salts he used to add to the bubble baths he drew for me. I can still feel his hands on my shoulders, rubbing out the tight knots after I’d worked a twelve-hour shift on the hotline.

He lifts his bag and slings it back over his shoulder. “Guess I’ll see you when I see you.”

“Yeah,” I croak. “Be safe.”

I can’t remember the last time we said “I love you” to each other. The phrase fell out of our vocabulary the same way you fall out of a boat.

Nate opens the door and walks out, tossing me a quick glance before disappearing.

I pause in the doorway, listening to his footsteps on the stairs leading down to the car park.

Should I have gone with him? Seen him off at the base?

That’s what a real military wife would do, isn’t it?

But it’s been a long time since I felt like a wife and not a prisoner in a jail cell of my own making.

I move toward the 1950s dresser I thrifted soon after we moved in. The attached mirror is cracked right through the center, making my reflection look like something from a fun house.

I inherited my springy black curls from my Black dad and my turned-up nose from my Polish mum. My brown skin is a mix of both of them, along with my love of books—hence the teetering stacks throughout the room.

My jewelry box, a gift from my grandma, is sitting on top of the scratched surface.

Twisting the ring on my left hand several times, I take a deep breath, tug it off, and tuck it into the box with the other trinkets.

The old friendship bracelet I made at summer camp still lives there, tattered and faded after all these years, but I can’t seem to toss it out.

Nate accuses me of being sentimental as though it’s a crime against humanity.

Opening the top drawer of the dresser, I pull out an oversized Pink Floyd tee.

Before I close it again, I lift up the stack of shirts.

It’s still there—the crisp manila envelope holding my freedom.

I extract it and peek inside. “From the Desk of the Court of Family Affairs” parades across the top of the page.

Nate’s and my names are listed beneath it, along with the date of our impromptu wedding.

My phone blares from the kitchen counter, and I shove the documents back into the envelope before returning it to the bottom of the drawer. It’s time to leave for work, and I’m not even dressed yet. Signing divorce papers will have to come later.

* * *

I dash up the stairs to the suite I’ve worked in for the past five years. You would think after all this time I would remember about the loose rubber strip at the top, but it trips me for the millionth time.

During my second year at university, in the evenings after my classes, I started volunteering at Restore Hope Initiative’s crisis hotline.

Nearly two years ago, they offered me an internship position, and I accepted, much to Nate’s disapproval.

I create content for our social media accounts that promotes mental health and addiction awareness, with the added purpose of trying to catch the eye of potential donors.

It’s definitely not what I saw myself doing when I first started at uni.

I was going to be a teacher like both of my parents.

It was an easy way to make them happy, and I knew I would have no trouble getting a job at a local school.

Teachers are harder to hold on to than wet fish.

But after a few weeks working the hotline, I knew I had found my calling.

I switched my major to communications and haven’t looked back since.

I skid to a halt in front of the administrator’s door and adjust my beanie. There’s an unidentifiable smudge on my combat boots that I probably got on the train. I wipe it off with my palm, then straighten.

Sondra looks up from her desk when I rap on the doorjamb. “Hey, girl.” She waves a hand. “Come on in.”

I know I’m lucky when it comes to bosses. Sondra is the best.

“Sorry I’m late. Nate left this morning.”

She tucks a loose strand of blond hair into a ponytail that’s already messy, despite it only being eight in the morning. She blames her regularly disheveled state on her two kids running her ragged before they head for school. “For a second there, I thought you meant for good.”

I exhale a tiny puff of air through my nose.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I just don’t see why you’re still married to that jerk.”

Nausea swirls in my belly, churning the contents around until I can feel my breakfast rising. I tamp it down and force my lips into a smile. “It’s complicated.”

Sondra removes her reading glasses and holds them out to the side as if asking “And?”

“I loved him. Once.”

Gnawing on the end of the earpiece, she lifts a single brow.

I sigh. “I need the housing stipend. And the health insurance.” I hate admitting this out loud, especially to my boss, who is already fully aware of how little I make working here.

She closes her eyes. “I know your paycheck isn’t large, but if that scumbag wouldn’t gamble it all away—”

“I know,” I rush to assure her. “I printed out the paperwork from the website you gave me.”

She tosses her glasses onto the desk. “It’s about time.”

“I just haven’t sent them in yet.”

“Then get your ass in gear and get it done.”

I take a deep breath and release it. “I will. Soon. I need to open a personal checking account first.”

“Saylor.” She blinks at me. “You haven’t done that yet?”

“I didn’t have enough until now.” The bank requires a thousand dollars to open one. It’s taken me four months of selling my old clothes and things around the flat to save it up. “I’m going over there on my lunch break.”

I used to have my own account. But when we got married, Nate told me his credit score was shit.

Bad enough that none of the local banks would let him open one.

I agreed to add his name to mine, giving him access to both the money in it and my good standing with the bank.

I lost control of it—and the money—soon after.

“That man will bring you down if you don’t get out,” Sondra says.

“You don’t think it’s cruel to file for divorce while he’s on tour?”

She cocks her brow again.

“What if something happened to him because of it?” I add.

“Let me tell you something.” She steeples her hands in front of her. “You are not responsible for that man. You’re not responsible for anyone but yourself.”

I fiddle with a string hanging from my distressed denim shorts. This feels a lot like a lecture from my parents.

“Just because he doesn’t respect you, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t respect yourself,” Sondra says.

Raising my head enough to meet her eyes, I nod. I know she’s right. I also know she’ll kick my ass if I don’t do something about it. “I’ll file the papers.”