Page 18 of Venomous Throne

Yes, I was ridiculously lonely. I had been for years. But I became a widow not too long ago. There were darker whispers surrounding my husband’s demise. And the first attractive man—who happened to save me from a drunken mishap—was someone I wanted? Ridiculous! I was acting in an utterly asinine manner.

Someday in the future, there might be a companion—or maybe even a lover—for me. But right now, I was in the fight of my life. My very freedom and the core of my identity were at stake.

Jaxon was a momentary temptation. A tease of what was out there. He wasn’t for me, and I needed to not lose my head around him. Never again. And if I was a good, disciplined girl right now, maybe I would find myself someone tall, dark, and handsome in the next few years.

“Someone tall,blond, and handsome…” I corrected. Shaking myself from the mental images dancing through my mind, I began to clean up the mess.

Chapter 9 – Isabella

The alarm ripped me from the clutches of death. I lay in bed, panting and gasping. If it hadn’t been for the shrill bleating bell, what would that fiend have done to me?

I rolled over, muscles stiff and protesting.

I should really do yoga again.

My mat laughed from the closet down the hall where it continued its three-year nap.

The sky beyond the frothy drapes was beginning to glow. It was going to be another scorcher of a day. I couldn’t wait to go sit by the pool and—

“Isabella,” I said sharply. “There are no more lounge days by the pool. You’re a working woman now.”

Groaning, I trudged to the bathroom. I didn’t look the part, so why should I feel it?

“You need to give yourself a makeover. No more cute dresses, no more fun outfits.”

I scooped my hair off my back, twisted it into a top knot. The question was, did I channel G.I. Joe? Or a powerfulbusinesswoman with slacks? Either way, I needed black clothing.

“Red lipstick,” I breathed.

The image started to pull together in my mind’s eye. There were whispers in the underworld. The Black Widow, they called me.

I needed to look fierce if any of the men were going to take my leadership seriously.

Which meant I would have to act severe.

I gulped.

Dons punished subordinates who acted out—which, according to my husband, they did all the damn time.

“Great, how am I supposed to beat the shit out of them?” I muttered, going to the closet. It was small compared to the one in the master bedroom. But I hadn’t slept in there since my husband’s death. I was free of his body, sleeping in here kept me free of his memory. Ghosts had no power over the living unless we gave it to them.

I refused to fuel the ones haunting the bedroom.

I began the long process of clearing it out, hauling the pretty clothes back to the big closet. I didn’t once glance at the king-sized bed that we shared.

By the time the clock struck eight, I was dressed in a black workout tank top that hugged my small frame and some grey trouser slacks with the price tag still in place that I bought years ago.

I went to collect my dishes and phone from the bedside table, ready to make a much-needed cup of coffee and order breakfast for the impending nine a.m. meeting.

Only…there were no dishes.

I frowned.

Clattering downstairs in the black ballet flats that rubbed the back of my heels—and gave me blisters, which was why I neverwore the things—I was treated to an even bigger surprise. The dishes were washed and stacked on the side of the sink.

“How much did I drink last night?” I groaned.

Going to the fridge, I discovered the rosé was only half empty. That wasn’t enough to black out and forget about washing the plate, fork, and wine glass.