Page 32 of Through Any Fire (Any x #1)

My anger leaves me in a whoosh, and I’m left feeling empty.

Empty and filthy. I march straight to “our” room and into the shower, not even waiting for it to warm.

I take my time washing my hair and scrubbing the dirt from my body.

My bandage gets soaked, so I peel it off and wash my face and behind my ears.

Then I shave my legs for the first time in a week, and by the time I exit, my fingers are pruned.

With a quick glance, I discover the scrape really isn’t that bad, and I forgo putting a new bandage on.

It takes fifteen minutes to blow-dry my hair into soft waves.

When I glance at the clock on my phone, I see I’ve only killed forty-five minutes.

Fuck . This is going to be a long night.

I end up spending the afternoon hunched over my laptop and throwing myself into my edits for the first half of my book.

It’s the only thing that can make me lose hours, and right now, if I don’t keep my mind and hands busy, I’m liable to do something I shouldn’t.

Like find out who Cal placed to guard our door, and then find out from Darla what their favorite snacks are, and then ring her to deliver those favorite snacks and see if it tempts them to leave the hallway.

Or head out to the balcony and see just how high up it is.

Unfortunately, it’s a straight shot down onto brick pavement that would not be pleasant to land on .

But, you know, those are only things I would do if I wasn’t forcing myself to keep busy. I totally didn’t try them and struck out…

Hours fly by, the sun eventually setting, the moon taking its place.

The cloudy sky makes for a gorgeous sunset, and I kill about fifteen minutes just watching it from the balcony.

Then I light a candle on the coffee table and pour myself a glass of whiskey.

A second glass follows quickly after, and I find myself checking my phone more often than ever before.

The action infuriates me. When did I revert into a teenage girl waiting for her boyfriend to call her? Cal wasn’t my boyfriend.

No. He’s my husband.

For once, the title doesn’t send shivers down my spine. Instead, a flurry of butterflies takes flight in my belly, and I pinch my lips together to fight the smile that threatens to appear.

Husband.

At eleven o’clock, I scroll through my phone again, clearing notifications. My messages have gotten out of control, with unread texts from Jenna, Jude, Kate, and…Leon? Why was he texting me? I thought I was basically dead to him.

Clicking on his thread, I can’t stop the gasp that escapes. Text after text begging me not to go to my meeting with my publisher today.

Lo, stay home. I can’t explain, but I’ll make it up to you.

Loren, don’t go to your meeting. Take it virtually, if you have to.

I thought I told you to stay home! Fuck!

Lo?

Loren are you okay?

LOREN ANSWER ME!

They came, a handful of minutes between each text, and I reach a trembling hand to cover my mouth. He knew? That Thorne was going to be attacked? And that I was going to be meeting with him? How could he have known?

As the questions swirl around my brain, another text comes through.

Guess you made it out okay. But I thought you should know just exactly what kind of husband you married.

I can feel his derision through the text, and my brows furrow in confusion. What does that mean?

Then an image comes through. Then another.

And another. They’re shot from a short distance, but based on the surrounding decor, it’s Abstrakt.

But it’s not the location that he’s talking about.

No, it’s Callahan being led by the hand into a private room by Kyra.

One shot, they’re entering a private room.

The next, Kyra throws a sultry smile over her shoulder.

The final, of the door shutting behind them.

Acid burns in my throat, and my stomach clenches in anger.

He’s at Abstrakt? With Kyra? The woman he slept with two weeks before we got married.

I know he didn’t owe me anything then, but when you have a plan to be faithful to someone, call me crazy, it shouldn’t fucking matter when the date on the marriage certificate is.

Steam practically pours from my ears. He’s supposed to be meeting this anonymous email sender, and instead, he’s at a fucking sex club?

My blood heats to a boil, and I shoot to my feet. I pour another glass of whiskey and toss it back. I drain two more, stewing in anger and a profound sense of disappointment, before the fuzzy blanket of alcohol hits me.

I should’ve known better. What does everyone always say?

People don’t change. Cal might have gotten older, filled into his generous muscles, and taken on some additional responsibilities, but he’s still just a man.

I swallow another hefty gulp of whiskey, and it should concern me it doesn’t even burn anymore, but it doesn’t.

Instead, all it does is make me stew harder.

Ten minutes pass, then twenty. The candle I lit hours ago is down to its last inch of wax, and I stare at the flickering wick and lose track of time.

Eventually—finally—the door handle turns, and in walks my husband. His tie is missing, jacket slung over his arm, top button undone, and sleeves rolled to his elbows. The disheveled sex hair is the nail in his coffin. My husband just betrayed me. Again.