Page 92 of Villains Series

FOUR WEEKS AGO

DOWNTOWN MERIT

THE cab stopped in front of the Heights, a pale stone spire seated in the heart of the city. Marcella paid the driver in cash and climbed out, her limbs a dull roar of pain with every step.

When she had first discovered the secret apartment—on a goddamn bank statement—she’d assumed the worst, but Marcus had claimed the place was purely practical. A safe house. He’d even insisted on bringing her there, showing off his thorough work—her favorite designer labels in the closet, her brand of coffee in the cupboard, her shampoo in the shower.

And Marcella had actually believed him.

Found a way to make it their secret instead of his. Now and then she’d phone him up, insisting there was some emergency, and he’d somberly order her to meet him at the safe house, and he’d arrive to find her waiting, wearing nothing but a gold ribbon carefully wrapped and finished with a bow.

Now the image of the tawdry pink lipstick flared like pain behind Marcella’s eyes.

What a fool.

The concierge rose from the front desk to greet her.

“Mrs. Riggins,”

said Ainsley, surprise lighting his face. He glanced quickly at her ill-fitting clothes, the bandages peeking out from collar and cuff, but the residents at the Heights paid for discretion as much as floor-to-ceiling windows (now Marcella wondered how many times Ainsley had employed that same discretion with her husband).

“Is … everything all right?”

he ventured.

She flicked a wrist dismissively.

“It’s a long story.”

And then, after a moment.

“Marcus isn’t here, is he?”

“No, ma’am,”

he said solemnly.

“Good,”

said Marcella.

“I’m afraid I’ve forgotten my keys.”

Ainsley nodded briskly and rounded the desk to summon the elevator. When the doors opened, he followed her inside. As it rose, she rubbed her forehead, as if simply tired, and asked the date.

The concierge told her, and Marcella stiffened.

She’d been in the hospital for almost two weeks.

But that didn’t matter, not now. What mattered was that it was a Friday night.

She knew exactly where Marcus would be.

The elevator stopped. Ainsley followed her out onto the fourteenth floor, unlocked the cream-colored door, and wished her a pleasant night.

Marcella waited until he was gone, then stepped inside and flicked on the lights.

“Honey, I’m home,”

she cooed to the empty apartment. She should have felt something—a pang of sorrow, or regret—but there was only the ache in her skin and the rising tide of anger beneath, and when she reached for one of the wineglasses on the counter, it warped under her touch and turned to sand. A thousand grains rained down between Marcella’s glowing fingers, spilled onto the floor.

She stared down at her hand, the remains of the glass dusting her palm. The strange light was already sinking back beneath her skin, and when she reached for a fresh glass, it held under her touch.

A bottle of chardonnay sat chilling in the fridge, and Marcella poured herself a drink and flicked on the news—now eager to know what she’d missed—as she clicked the volume up and headed for the bedroom.

One of Marcus’s shirts lay thrown across the bed … along with one of her own. The glass in her hand threatened to give, so Marcella set it aside. The doors to the walk-in closet were thrown wide, Marcus’s dark suits lining one wall, while the rest was given over to a medley of couture dresses, blouses, heels.

Marcella glanced back at the clothes still twined in a lover’s embrace atop the bed and felt her anger rising like steam. Fingers glowing, she ran her hand along her husband’s side of the closet, and watched the garments fade and rot under her touch. Cotton, silk, and wool all withered and dropped from the hangers, crumbling by the time they hit the floor.

Hell hath no fury, she thought, dusting her palms.

Satisfied—no, not satisfied, nowhere near satisfied, but momentarily appeased—Marcella took up her drink and went into the luxury bathroom, where she set the glass on the rim of the marble sink and began to peel away the frumpy stolen clothes. She stripped until she was dressed in nothing but bandages. The sterile white wrappings weren’t nearly as seductive as the gold ribbons, but they seemed to trace the same path across her leg, her stomach, her arms.

Marking her. Mocking her.

Marcella’s hands twitched with the sudden urge to reach out and ruin something, anything. Instead she stood there and took in her reflection, every angle, every flaw, memorized it while she waited for the rage to pass—not vanish, no, simply retract, like a cat’s claws. If this new power was temporary, a thing with limits, she didn’t want to pass them. She needed her nails sharp.

The painkillers from the hospital were wearing off, and her head was ringing, so Marcella dug two Vicodin out of her emergency supply beneath the sink, washed them down with the last of the chardonnay, and went to get ready.