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I make a disgusted sound and twist around, prepared to leave him outside to stew in the rain if that’s what he wants.
“That house is mine!” he yells at my back. “You clearly don’t need it anymore. You’ve got yourself a sugar daddy.”
I turn around long enough to shake my head. “You are pathetic.” When I try to walk away, though, his hand clamps down on my arm. “Ow! Let me go. That hurts.”
His dark eyes are slits of anger. “Listen to me, you little?—”
But he never gets to finish his sentence, because he’s ripped off me. Matvei must’ve taken my words to heart.
But when I turn around, I realize that it’s not Matvei who has come to my rescue.
“You must have a death wish, Charles.”
42
ARSEN
“It hasto be a death wish,” I continue in an icy snarl. “Because a burning desire to die as painfully and slowly as possible is the only reason I can think of for you to show up here like this.”
Charles Barnes is red-faced, paddling his legs in the air as I hold him off the ground at eye level. “Let… me… down…” he croaks.
I’m prepared to drop him like the trash he is only once he’s taken his dying breath, but Laila lays her hand on my arm before I get that far. “Let him go, Arsen. He’s not worth it.”
He isn’t—butsheis.
So as much as I’d love to bury this fucker six feet under, I’d rather not do it in front of Laila.
“Go inside,” I tell her.
“I will. With you.”
His face is puffy, shifting from red to purple. A minute or two more and he’ll be dead weight—quite literally.
Laila shifts closer, wincing and favoring her right side. “Arsen, please. Just come inside with me.”
I consider my options for a second before I see Laila shiver again.
Then, reluctantly, I drag him a little closer, making sure he sees the threat in my eyes. “You’re walking away from this house because my wife took mercy on your life. Not because I spared you. Touch her again, though, and not even she will be able to save you.”
I drop him, and his legs buckle like matchsticks. He collapses into the mud, moaning softly.
I take Laila’s hand in mine and lead her inside. The moment we’re on the other side of the bolted gate, I turn to my wife. “Did he hurt you?”
Her hair is stuck to her face from the rain. She’s shaking her head, but her hand is cupped over her forearm.
I peel her fingers away—and promptly consider ripping the gate from the hinges and beating Charles over the head with it.
Red, fingerprint-shaped welts wrap around her arm, swelling more and more by the second. “That fucking bastard?—”
“It’s fine! It’s nothing.” She fists my shirt and pulls herself close to me, the heat of her body cutting through my frosty rage. “Just… stay with me.”
It takes every iota of self-restraint I possess to keep myself at her side. I grit my teeth. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine. I just didn’t expect him to show up here. I thought… I thought I could handle it.”
Her chin wobbles and she sways on her feet. Wordlessly, I hoist her into my arms and carry her back to the house. She doesn’t argue or pound her fists against my chest, which is how I know she’s not okay.
I take her straight to our bathroom and run a hot bath. She watches me work, but her eyes are unfocused. I have a feeling she’s not really here with me. When the bath is ready, I reach for the buttons of her blouse.
