Chapter 22
Dominic
The door swings shut behind my psychotic wife, and I stare in wonder.
She stabbed me.
My wife just fucking stabbed me.
I look down at the hilt of the steak knife sticking out of my thigh, and chuckle.
She’s a firecracker. A fire spitting dragon. And it’s exhilarating to experience the bite behind that bark. I can’t believe I ever thought she was a boring, porcelain doll.
I truly didn’t realize why she was getting upset at first. But when it dawned on me, I figured it was a good lesson on getting thicker skin. She needs to be tougher and learn how to handle criticism. Plus, I was only voicing her sentiment.
But once I figured it out, I might’ve continued taking jabs at her because that red face and the smoke spewing from her nose were fueling me.
I look down again and hiss out a breath. Fuck, it’s starting to hurt. I assess the situation and note that a few stitches should fix this.
I take out my phone and call the Syndicate doctor, Dr. Anderson.
He picks up on the third ring.
“Can I help you with something?” he asks sassily. I swear him dating Matthias’s maid, Dotty, has made him gutsy.
“I need some stitches in my thigh. Now.” I’m not giving him an option, mostly because I need to make sure this doesn’t get infected.
“It’s Sunday evening. How the hell did you get injured enough to need stitches?” His sighs of exasperation annoy me. It isn’t his place to question me.
“I pissed off the wrong person.” Or maybe the right person. Because if anyone else stabbed me, they’d pay greatly. But my rebellious wife… I feel no need to avenge my thigh. I’m more amused than anything.
“Where are you?” The jingle of his car keys and the sound of a car door closing echo through the line. He’s not far from here, so he shouldn’t take long.
“At home. Meet me in the dining room.” I’m not risking further injury by walking around.
“How did you get injured in your own home?” The question is understandable, but not excusable. It’s none of his damn business.
“Just come over,” I bark into the phone then end the call.
It takes him fifteen minutes to arrive, and in that time, I bask in my situation.
My sexy wife feels so passionately for me that she stabbed me. Yes, it may be feelings of anger right now, but that means I can turn them into lust.
Unfortunately, that train of thought leads me to a pretty uncomfortable position. My cock hardens at fantasy of her lusting over me. Of what we could do together. Of what we will do.
When Dr. Anderson arrives, I have to place my napkin on my lap to hide my issue. It doesn’t last long though, because once he pulls the knife out, the pain overwhelms me. Thank God, because the last thing I’d want him to find as he demolishes my slacks is my boner.
He cleans the wound, and that shit hurts. A weaker man would be plotting his revenge, but I don’t. I do wish she were here though. And not just because I want her to witness the consequences of her actions, she should have to do that.
But because she should be seated next to me and watching as Dr. Anderson stitches and glues me. I wouldn’t even wince, and she’d be impressed by my endurance. She’d be here, by my side. When he starts sewing me up, she’d gasp and grab my hand.
Slap!
The sound echoes through the room before I can even feel the sting in my leg. What the fuck? Dr. Anderson just slapped my leg.
“Go shower off the blood once this dries.” His eyes narrow in suspicion. “I’m only giving you pain medicine if you tell me what happened.”
I chuckle.
“I don’t want any pain killers. I can handle a little stab wound.” I won’t have my judgment impaired, not even for an injury. There’s no one I fully trust enough to make sure everything remains well.
“Listen here, boy. I will go to your father and tell him something’s amiss in your home if you don’t open up.” His threat holds levity. My dad may not be the boss anymore, but he’s still my father. And the last thing I need is my family prying into my marriage.
“My wife stabbed me in the leg. But it was my fault.” I’m quick to defend her actions because I can’t have anyone questioning her. She didn’t stab me because she’s Bratva, she stabbed me because she’s a woman, and I commented on her weight.
“Why?” Dr. Anderson’s mouth purses.
“Because I said some things about her and eating and getting fat and being too skinny. You know…” I don’t have an ending to that sentence because I’m pretty sure he does know that’s the last thing you should tell a woman.
“I know that you’re a fool! What’s wrong with you? You’re lucky she only hit fat and muscle.” He doesn’t seem upset on my behalf at all.
I scoff, offended that he called me fat. There isn’t an ounce of fat on these thighs.
“I know I fucked up,” I grit out at him.
“Yeah, you did.” He stares at me for a hard moment, then packs his things. Right before he leaves, he looks me over, and sighs. “A word of advice. Find her and apologize. It’s not her fault her husband’s a jackass.”
I scoff, but mull over his advice.
Maybe I should apologize.
…
I limp my way to my bedroom, only to pause when I find Katerina and that fucking cat on our bed. She’s teasing him with a stuffed mouse on a string. She keeps moving it around and the dummy mindlessly chases it.
“Why is it in here?” I growl out, not wanting the pisser anywhere near where I sleep.
“He is the only reason I’m in here. He snuck out of my bedroom and came here. He likes playing on the bed.” She doesn’t take her attention away from the cat, and it annoys me.
I huff, but instead of taking the cue, she starts humming.
I throw my hands on my hips and glare at them.
“Well?” I almost shout at her.
“Well, what?” She finally turns to me, looking as exasperated as I feel. No. She doesn’t get to be annoyed. I’m the one who was stabbed!
“Aren’t you going to ask how my leg is?” I grit my teeth and raise a brow.
“Oh, that. Pfft, no.” She turns back to the cat and waves me off dismissively.
I stalk towards her. She’s in the middle of the bed, so I grab her ankle and pull her to the edge.
“You stabbed me. Then I told you to stay, and you left. And now, hours later, you don’t even check on me!” I don’t know why I’m so hung up on it. I don’t know why her indifference bothers me. She wasn’t indifferent hours ago when she stabbed me. Why is she now?
“You’re clearly fine seeing as you just walked your happy ass in here. Your little boo-boo is not my problem.” She rolls her eyes and tries to kick my hand off her ankle. I just squeeze tighter, not freeing her.
“Not your problem? You fucking stabbed me! If anyone else had done it, they’d be getting tortured right now!” I shake her leg, trying to knock some sense into her.
“What do you want me to do? Apologize? Thank you for your mercy?” She rolls her eyes. “It’s not going to happen. I’m not sorry, and it’s your choice not to punish me.”
Thoughts of punishing her in a different way come to mind, and I have to concentrate on keeping my expression neutral.
“You’d do well to keep me happy. Pissing me off, injuring me, isn’t smart.” The threat’s clearly empty seeing as I’m not retaliating after she stabbed me. But maybe she’ll buy it.
Her eyes widen, then soften. Her lips tremble, and for a moment, I think she’ll cry. Disgusting. She’s too strong to cry over my stern voice.
She wiggles her way out of my hold and crawls across the mattress to me. She sits on her knees and faces me. She’s so tall that we’re almost at eye level.
“I’m sorry, mudak.” Her voice quivers at the pet name, and I wonder what sweet thing she’s calling me. Maybe it’s baby or sweetheart. “What can I do to make you feel better?” She wraps her arms around my neck. “Maybe I can kiss it better?”
Her lips purse, and she brushes a light kiss on my neck. I can’t hold back my groan. Her lips feel too good.
She slides her hand down my chest, passing over my hard muscles. I instinctively flex under her fingers, and her soft gasps shows how much she appreciates my time in the gym.
When she’s inches away from my hard cock, she leans in, and her lips almost brush mine. I lean down to meet her, to finally get the kiss I’m owed. Her scent overwhelms me. It’s vanilla and something. My arms wrap around her, one over her back, the other in her hair.
She finally finds my cock, and I can’t help thrusting against her palm. I can feel the heat of her hand through my layers, and all I want is her skin on mine.
“I want to show you how I feel,” she whispers against my lips. Her husky tone and those hooded eyes break my resolve.
“Then do it, wife.” It comes out hoarsely.
She tightens her grip on my cock, then a jolt of pain has me hunched over.
She just slapped my wound! She just fucking slapped the spot where she stabbed me! This woman is psychotic!
She throws her head back and laughs.
“Does my big, bad husband really think I’m going to coddle him because he has a little boo-boo? That I’m going to kiss him better after he gets what he deserves?” She talks in an infuriating baby voice. The one people use when they mock others.
“Goddamn it, woman!” I chance one more glance at her, but the victorious gleam in her eyes has my blood boiling.
Pathetically, I limp my way into the bathroom, then slam the door shut. My ripped pants are thrown away. All the while, I’m cursing.
I turn the water freezing, trying to calm myself, but my dick won’t deflate. I try to think of anything other than my insane wife to get it to go down. When what I crave is relief from this ache.
Wait, why am I letting her win? If she wants to toy with me and turn me on, then she is going to listen while I address it.
I switch the water to hot and let it calm me. Reaching for my body wash, I pause as a yellow bottle that isn’t normally here catches my eye. I open it and sniff. Vanilla and something. I check the label. Milk and honey scented.
It smells fucking divine. It smells like my divine wife.
I pour a generous amount into my hand and lather it. The tantalizing smell fills the shower, and I inhale it. I bring my hand to my cock and stroke.
I can’t hold back my groan.
One day with her and I’m jerking off in the shower.
My wife may be the death of me. And I might just enjoy it.