Page 5 of The Hunter

But Victor liked me in red. Said it made me look expensive.

Despite preferring a deep blue or purple, I wore red for Victor.

Everything I did was for Victor.

I didn’t have a choice.

My hands trembled as I stood in front of the mirror and smoothed the silk over my hips. My palms were clammy, my fingers stiff with cold. I checked again for wrinkles. Smudges. Imperfections. I’d already gone over every inch, but I couldn’t take the risk. Not tonight.

Victor had been on edge all week. Which meant I had to be perfect. Anything less wouldn’t be tolerated.

I reapplied my lipstick for the third time. Blotted. Reapplied again. Crimson. Just like he wanted.

My stomach churned as I sprayed the perfume he preferred. Rose water. It used to be my favorite, soft and floral, like spring in a bottle. Now it only reminded me of him. Oppressive. Harsh. Brutal. It clung to me even after I scrubbed my skin raw, reminding me of Victor’s firm hold over every aspect of my life.

The light above the vanity glinted off the diamond choker around my throat. Another one of his gifts. Another reminder. Another link in the heavy shackles I wore. There was nothing in my life he hadn’t chosen. Nothing that belonged to me.

Including my body.

The sharp click of the front door unlocking sliced through the silence like a razor. I startled, my heart leaping into my throat.

He was home.

I glanced at the clock. We were supposed to leave in twenty minutes, which meant he was early. And if I wasn’t ready, he’d be angry.

I spun to the mirror again, examining my blonde hair. A strand slipped free from its low bun, and I hastily grabbed a bobby pin to secure it in place.

I slid into the red-soled heels he’d selected for me. The four inches of punishment were meant to be seen, not used. Admired, not endured.

With one last check of my appearance, I stepped out of the bedroom, re-securing the mask I had no choice but to wear if I hoped to survive this life.

Survive my husband.

From the hallway, I could hear his movements. Sharp footsteps pacing across the marble. The clink of glass. A curse barked into the cavernous space. The tension in the house was thicker than normal. I could feel it. Something was wrong.

The smooth wood of the banister was cool on my skin as I glided down the staircase, my heart thudding like a warning drum with every step.

Victor stood by the bar against the backdrop of Biscayne Bay, a rocks glass clutched in one hand. The amber liquid inside sloshed with each tremor of his grip. His gray hair was brushed back neatly, his navy suit pressed to perfection. But his dark eyes were wild tonight.

He didn’t look at me at first. He drained half his drink in one long swallow, the sound of ice knocking against crystal uncomfortably loud in the silence.

When his gaze finally fell on me, his mouth twisted into a smile.

Not the heartwarming kind you’d expect from a man who was supposed to love you.

This was the kind of smile that meant danger.

“Well…,” he drawled in that syrupy Southern accent that had charmed so many investors and women, “don’t you look ready to fuck someone.”

My heart stopped. My body didn’t move. I couldn’t let it. I’d learned the stillness was safer.

“I wore what you asked,” I said softly with a gentle smile.

Too enthusiastic and he’d know I was nervous.

Too lazy and he’d accuse me of being ungrateful.

“And the lipstick?” His eyes raked down my body, possessive and cold.