Page 52 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

I lean my hip on the breakfast bar and watch my wife as she tries to disassemble the coffee machine.

At least, I assume that’s what she’s trying to do.

In her efforts, instead of using one of the screwdrivers I keep in the drawer just to the left of her, she’s wielding a butter knife, attempting to unfasten the tiny screw.

“Damn you, you little fucker,” she grumbles. “I will not be bested by a piece of aluminum.”

“That’s stainless steel, actually,” I say.

Tara spins around so fast she knocks the bag of coffee beans off the counter. “What are you doing here?”

“This is my house.” I nod at the coffee maker. “And that thing you’re trying to kill is my favorite kitchen appliance.”

“Get back upstairs. Ilaria put you on strict bed rest.”

My forehead furrows. “Ilaria was here? When?”

“You don’t remember?”

“No.”

An emotion flashes in her eyes so fast that if I weren’t watching her closely, I would have missed it. But she refocused her attention on the coffee maker too fast for me to get a grasp on it. And although I’m not entirely positive, it looked like hurt shining in her eyes.

“That means you don’t remember her sticking a huge needle into your naked ass. Shame.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but the last thing I recall is fucking you senseless in the shower, and then making you scream my name while we burned up the sheets in your bed.” Pushing off the breakfast bar, I come up behind her and lay my hand on her hip.

“And I’d love a repeat. Watching you come on my hand, my tongue, my dick, will help me forget all the aches my body is currently feeling. ”

She swats me away without bothering to turn around.

“You have pneumonia. Get back in bed.”

I drag my nails through my stubble, feeling a bit confused.

Did I do something last night to upset her?

She can’t still be mad about our spat at the gala, because I know we moved passed that when she begged me for more after she came on my tongue.

The melody of her sweet little mewls, while I was balls-deep in her, is still playing in my head.

I mean, she might still be mad. My woman sure knows how to hold a grudge.

And she’s never shied away from being snarky.

But whenever she’s had something to say to me, she’s always done it to my face.

Now, though, she is avoiding all eye contact.

In fact, she’s doing everything she can to look anywhere but at me.

“Screwdrivers are here.” Opening the drawer next to her, I pull out a red-handled flathead and set it on the countertop. “Can I ask what you’re doing?”

“This thing won’t work properly. There’s so much limescale buildup.”

“Did you try cleaning it with vinegar first?”

“Who are you? Martha Stewart?” She grabs the edge of the counter, hanging her head as if in defeat.

Something isn’t right, I just know it. I reach for her arm, but she leans away from my touch. Her movements are swift and immediate, like I’ve got the plague or something.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I snap. “Why are you acting like this? You won’t even let me touch you!”

“Because I don’t want you to.”

“What the fuck? Since when?” I growl, sick to death of this constant push-and-pull. “You can’t just pretend like this thing between us isn’t happening.”

“There is no thing !” She turns around and meets my gaze for the first time.

“It was just sex, DeVille. You scratched my itch, I scratched yours. Nothing else has happened,” she huffs.

“What? Do you think your cock is magical or something? That a few rounds of hate fucking would somehow make me forget that neither of us are in this marriage by choice? That you literally blackmailed me into it?”

“It certainly seemed that my wife found my cock magical while I was railing her through the mattress earlier.” I lay my hands on the counter on either side of her.

Caging her in, because she looks ready to flee.

“So let me get this straight. We fucked, and we’ll do it again.

Soon. And often. But it changes nothing? ”

“Exactly. Now, please go back upstairs, DeVille. You were running a high fever all night, and Ilaria mentioned that you might be contagious. I have no desire to catch what you’ve got.”

“Fine. Whatever.” I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and storm out of the kitchen, fuming.

Did I expect things to be different between us? Nah. And I don’t want anything to change. She and I are just as we were when we started. Dealing with the shit situation that landed at our feet. She still hates me, and I don’t like her, either. And it should stay that way.

Besides, that woman is obviously incapable of forming a healthy relationship.

If for a minute there, I thought we might try, it must have just been my raging fever talking.

Clearheaded, I know better than that. I knew from the start that the two of us were a big mistake.

One that I tried to contain with all the rules I made her agree to.

Rules she’s found a way to defy again and again.

Pulling stunt after stunt until I lost my shit.

I never lose my shit. Ever. And especially not over a woman. Certainly not over a woman who fights me every step of the way. Or demands a fucking million dollars for every month of our marriage, as if proximity to me warrants hazard pay! And buys a goddamned helicopter when I offer her a new car.

A stupid grin takes over my face. Fighting it is futile. My little hellion.

I chuckle, but on my inhale, a nasty bout of coughing catches me at the foot of the stairs. Fuck. I grab the railing to keep myself upright. A minute ago, I was fine, now I feel like I’ve been run over by a bus.

That fever must have been a doozy because I don’t remember shit from last night.

Nothing after Tara and I rattled the glass walls of the shower and then repeated the performance in her bed before collapsing, exhausted.

I know I didn’t have the strength to get dressed before falling asleep, so how in the hell did I wake up in a T-shirt and a pair of pajama pants?

Halfway up the stairs, my tired ass stumbles ’cause I don’t have the strength to pick up my feet.

In that instant, a blurry image flashes through my mind.

Tara laying a cool towel over my forehead.

It’s there one moment and gone the next.

I shake my head. Perfect. I’ve started conjuring up delusions now.

Imagining things that never could be. Seeing as my wife made her feelings toward me clear downstairs, she would have sooner left me for dead than nursed me to health.

Once I’ve finally dragged myself into my room, I rummage around, searching for my phone.

By now, I must have dozens of emails and missed calls, but the damn thing is nowhere in sight.

Maybe it’s in Tara’s room somewhere? I toss the jacket I just searched to the side and head for the door connecting our bedrooms.

The bed is unmade. Just as I left it. The sheets are tangled into a big mess.

Both pillows have indents on them. Did she sleep next to me?

The other side of the bed was empty when I woke up, so she must have gone to another room to sleep, fearful she’d “catch what I’ve got.

” I reach over and grab the pillow. The pillow that I know I did not use.

I turn it around. Study it carefully. Then, with a look over my shoulder to make sure I’m alone, I bring it to my nose.

It smells like her. That sugary strawberry scent.

I bury my face in its softness and take a deep whiff.

Lips. Gentle and sensual, delicately trailing along the edge of my mouth.

My hands slowly raking through wet, dark strands.

Waterfall of silk over my fingertips. Whispered words and cold, cold water.

Soothing promises and icy, biting pain. And then, the most delicious smoothness beneath my lips as they drag across the column of her neck.

Hard spray pounding my shoulders. But in the echo of a shower, my name on a soft exhale of her breath.

I throw the pillow back on the bed. Definitely imagining things. Because I sure as fuck don’t remember any encounter with my wife being anything other than explosive. There’s never been a tender moment between us. She only ever calls me Satan or DeVille. Unless I’m bleeding.

Jesus, I’m so goddamned tired. And cold. So fucking cold. I let myself fall forward onto the bed, burying my face in the pillow I just discarded.

***

“Shit. You’re burning up again…”

Hands. Stroking my face. Something wet and cool on my forehead. I swat it away.

“Damn it, Arturo.”

I’d rather feel those palms. They’re soft and warm. Jesus, it’s fucking freezing. I capture one of the hands and press it to my cheek. Ah, much better.

“Open your mouth. Drink.”

No. No, I just wanna sleep.

“Shit. If you don’t take the pill, we’ll need to have another cool shower, and I’m not sure I can get you in there by myself.” Velvety voice. Cajoling. But desperate at the same time. “Please, Arturo.”

I don’t want a pill, don’t want to drink, but I can’t resist that sensual voice. I couldn’t deny it anything it asks. So I cave. My throat feels raw as cold fluid rushes down.

“I’m going to soak more towels.”

No! Don’t go! I reach out blindly, grabbing the owner of that voice. Crushing the siren to my chest. Keeping her close. So close. So warm. So with me.

“Let me go. I have to—”

I shake my head. No! Not happening. Never letting you go. “You stay,” I rasp. “No arguments.”

“Your manners don’t change even when you’re delirious, DeVille.”

I hate that. Hate when she does it. Puts distance between us by using my last name. I won’t allow it. Want her close. Throwing my leg over, I drag her to me. Tangling our limbs together. Fusing us into one.

“I adore the way you smell,” I mumble into her hair, inhaling the fresh, berry scent. It’s sweet and tart, and so yummy. Sweet and tart like her.

“Yeah, you already said that. Please get your tentacles off me. I can’t breathe.”

“When I was little, strawberries were my favorite. They are fruity and sweet, and sometimes slightly sour. Perfectly balanced, which is what makes them great. Like you. Fucking perfect.”

“You called me a walking disaster.”

“You are. In an adorable, irresistible way. ” I squeeze her tighter and sigh. “I’m so sleepy. Promise me you won’t leave. Stay… with me.”

“Okay.”

“It’s just a stupid stove,” I grumble as I stare at the range. I’m a hair’s breadth from hysteria. “Just light the thing, set the pot down, and boil the damn water.”

Rationally, I know the chances of this contraption going up in flames out of the blue are next to zero.

Gas or not, appliances don’t simply combust. But fear isn’t rational.

What I know and what I feel are two different things.

And that’s what isn’t letting my feet lift to move me forward.

Keeping me from taking that final step. The chopped-up ingredients for the veggie noodle soup are on the counter, right next to the pot I’ve already filled up with water.

Everything’s waiting on me to get a grip.

The health nut doesn’t have a microwave, of course.

So my best option is nonexistent. And it figures the esteemed Chef DeVille would have something against electric kettles, too.

Because I checked everywhere in this fucking kitchen, searched every cupboard.

Twice. Nada. With that, the last of my hopes failed.

Reaching into the back pocket of my jeans, I pull out my phone and dial Sienna.

“Tara! I’ve been calling you for hours. How’s Arturo?”

“Fine,” I croak. “Sleeping like a log.”

“No fever?”

“Nope. Not in the last three hours.” Ahem. I clear my throat. “Listen, can I make soup using hot tap water? Like really, really hot water?”

“Um… noooo .”

I lean against the breakfast bar and close my eyes, sighing. “That’s what I thought.”

“Tara? Are you okay?”

Am I? The last thing I ate was lunch. Yesterday. And excluding the brief stretch of shut-eye last night, I’ve been awake for more than twenty-four hours. “Fine. I’m fine.”

“Do you want me to come over and help?”

Hmm, asking my sister-in-law to drive over an hour to help me make fucking soup would be a new low. “No need. I’ll call you if anything changes. Say hi to Drago for me.”

Setting the phone down, I resume glaring at the stove.

Telling Greta not to show up today was a mistake, but I didn’t want her to risk exposure to pneumonia.

I did consider asking one of Arturo’s guys patrolling the grounds to come and boil the water for me.

But that idea died a quick death when I pictured my darling husband laughing his ass off after hearing about it.

Maybe I could just ignore Ilaria’s advice and bring him juice?

“Shit.”

My throat closes up, making it hard to swallow, as I take a step toward my doom.

With shaking fingers, I reach toward the closest knob and turn it clockwise.

Rapid clicking breaks the silence in the room, just as the faint but putrid odor of gas fills the air.

A circle of blue flame rises from the burner.

It takes everything in me not to turn tail and flee.

Instantly, I’m transported twenty years back in time as images of fire clawing at the walls of my childhood home flare before my eyes. A scream swells inside my chest. No! I can’t do it. Can’t let myself be sucked back there again.

I blink, banishing the mental fog and the scene of destruction, shifting my focus to setting the pot on the stove.

“Damn you, DeVille,” I rasp as the pot nearly slips from my shaking hands. “Damn you, and your soup, and your goddamned kitchen.”

As soon as the stainless steel container is squarely settled on the burner, I move several steps back and watch the tiny flame lick at the bottom of the pot. I did it. If someone told me I’d willingly go anywhere near a fire like this, I’d call them nuts and laugh all the way to the bank.

I’m gloating internally, feeling proud of myself and my triumph, but that happy buzz pops faster than a balloon meeting a porcupine. I can’t believe it. I did it… for him .

Fuck.

Shoving my fingers into my hair, I grip the roots. I am a fucking disaster. But this is different. This is mercy. He’s sick!

Arturo’s temperature hasn’t spiked in hours, so I’m hopeful the worst of it has passed. That should mean no more sweet delusional ramblings. No more tender words that mess with my head. Nothing that blurs my perception of who Arturo DeVille actually is.

I have to stay true to my agenda. Keep him outside my walls and away from my silly heart.

I can’t let myself fall for Satan DeVille.

Can’t let myself fall… deeper.