Chapter 3

3

Evan

One Month Later

Iunderestimated how much of a struggle this would be.

Pretending the way I feel about Jolie is normal.

I’m getting ready for “work,” standing at the kitchen counter in a tie I once used to strangle a man to death, sipping coffee and trying like hell to remain still. To look like a regular husband. This is my morning process while she’s in the shower and getting dressed, humming so prettily to herself. I stand here and struggle against the blinding urge to storm into our bedroom, pin her down and fuck her again. Again. Again. Even though I already had her twice this morning. Once on her hands and knees in bed. Once on the edge of the bathroom sink.

My cock is strangled in my slacks, begging to be let out.

But I have to control my lust for her. I have to keep it at bay as much as possible, so she can believe me to be her normal husband. That’s what she asked for. That’s what she needs.

And it’s working for her, this normalcy.

In addition to her own strength, our routine, the support of having someone at home who loves her…it’s part of what’s healing her.

So I will stay the course.

The day after we spent our first night together, I slowly started moving in. Leaving boots in her mudroom, my toothbrush in the cabinet. A shirt in her laundry.

I fucked her blind every night. Addicted us both.

God, we are so very addicted.

The privilege of calling her my wife only deepens the constant ache. I was able to wait all of two weeks before asking Jolie to be my wife, presenting her with a diamond surrounded in yellow topaz stones that remind me of her eyes. My sanity hinged on her saying yes and she did. She did, tearfully, throwing herself into my arms, and I could barely believe my luck.

It happened.

I found my angel and made her mine.

No, I have to keep her. Safe. Happy. Untouched by anyone but me.

Forever.

My hands grip the edge of the counter when I hear the distinct slither of her panties being dragged up her thighs, hiding away the pussy I crave sixty minutes out of every hour. If I concentrate hard enough, I swear I can hear her heartbeat from the other room. My pulse beats in the same tempo, same speed.

Jolie sails into the kitchen, her face bright and flushed and gorgeous.

She’s wearing yoga pants and a snug T-shirt that molds to her gorgeous tits.

I almost break off the edge of the counter.

“Good morning.” She bites her lip and ducks her head. “Again.”

“Good morning.” I order myself to back up and refrain from kissing her. It’s painful, but neither one of us will ever make it out the door. “I made your cheese toast,” I say, triple-checking my handiwork, then handing her the plate.

My wife gives a little intake of breath. “Thank you.”

If she knew what I was, if she knew I was lying, would she love me?

Would she try to leave?

These fears echo inside me constantly. They probably will forever.

They might drive me madder than I already am.

Jolie leans back against the counter and takes a bite of her favorite breakfast. Multigrain toast with a slice of cheddar on top. “Mmmm.” She swallows, smiling at me while I watch her throat, mesmerized. “It always tastes better when you make it.”

“You didn’t realize you’d married a culinary master, did you?” I say, straight-faced. “Toast. Cereal. Putting ice cream in bowls. There’s nothing I can’t do.”

Her giggle sends my heart into a fit of skipped beats. “I like cooking, so you’re safe. Besides, you kill the spiders. That’s what really counts.”

I kill a lot more than that, honey.

For instance, the man who kidnapped you.

It’s good to have contacts on the inside.

I wasn’t always a killer. I grew up relatively normal in the suburbs, although I didn’t have a lot of friends. Relating to people never came naturally. My interest in books about the military history and war led me to join the army out of high school and there…there is where I was taught how to kill. How to compartmentalize and execute without emotion. When my tours overseas were over and I was at loose ends, I fell back on what I knew. Easy as that.

Now she is all I want to know. All I want to study.

I continue to do jobs, but my mind is always here now. On her.

“Are you ready for today?” I ask Jolie.

She swallows with a little more effort, her good mood dimming. “I don’t know. Maybe I could put it off until tomorrow?”

The quiver of nerves in her voice causes an anguished twist in my chest. What I wouldn’t give to take away her painful memories. Crush them like bugs. I can’t do that, though. So I can only do everything in my power to show Jolie how strong she is. It would be easy to protect her myself for the rest of her life—and that is my instinct. Wrap her up in my arms, hide her away, keep her in the shadows where she’s comfortable. But she’s capable of more. She needs more from herself to be happy. Making her happy is my job, but over the course of our first month together, I’ve learned we have to share the job, whether it’s hard for me or not. “There are only women in the self-defense class. It’s taught by a woman, too. It’s a well-lit studio.”

Jolie nods. Says nothing.

“You can do it, angel eyes. I know you can.” I reach over and brush a hand down her ponytail. “I’ll be with you in spirit. And I’m one phone call away.”

Well. I’ll be parked down the block.

But she doesn’t need to know that.

“I guess if it goes terribly, my therapy session afterward will help smooth things out.” She comes off the counter and turns, looking at the clock on the stove. Her eyes widen. “Chris! You’re going to be late for work.”

I wince. “Shit.” I tug on the knot of my tie. “It’s a good thing I outsell everyone or they’d never put up with me.”

“You’re worth the wait.” She sets down the remainder of her toast and holds out her arms for a hug. “See you tonight.”

I panic.

If I put my arms around Jolie, I’m going to back her against the counter. Rip those thin, ass-hugging pants down her legs. Pound my cock into her until she’s screaming…and she’ll never make it to self defense class. Or her therapy session afterward. But the fact that I’m an insurance salesman will become even more unrealistic if I don’t adhere to the schedule.

I can’t leave her hanging, though.

She’s already beginning to look at me oddly for hesitating.

I bite down on my tongue as hard as I can and pull her close, settling my cheek on top of her head. Immediately, the beast inside me howls, my cock protesting being trapped inside my pants. Her lilac scent drifts upward and I drop my nose to the crook of her neck, inhaling roughly, my hands tunneling into her hair, fucking up her ponytail. I can’t hold the obsession at bay when we’re touching. My control withers.

My hips pin her to the counter. I dip my knees and grind up against her pussy, forcing a whimper out of her, her nipples turning to little torpedoes inside her shirt.

Stop. I need to stop.

I’m her husband, the one who does what’s best for her—and the best thing is to keep up the pretense of being a normal man. Not an obsessed stalker. Not a hit man. Just plain old Christopher. The best thing for her is to learn how to defend herself. Not because there will ever be a need, but because it’ll give her back the confidence she lost.

Her weekly therapy session is also a must.

It’s how I find out what’s happening inside of her head and compensate.

You have to back away.

I press my bared teeth to her ear. “No matter what happens today, remember your husband is going to fuck you so filthy tonight, your legs will be shaking for a week.”

Jolie moans, her fingers grappling with my belt, but I step away before she can get it loose, risking a kiss to her perfect mouth to ease the sting of leaving.

“I love you,” I say, looking her hard in the eye.

“I love you, too,” she whispers.

With the willpower of forty men, I turn and walk out the door.

Then I drive my car to the end of the block and wait for her to leave, so I can follow her.

* * *

When I foundthe self-defense classes for Jolie, I didn’t suggest them to her until the studio had been thoroughly vetted. I went at night and checked the locks. Looked through the private files of every employee, searched them online to make sure they weren’t hiding deranged boyfriends or shady pasts.

It’s squeaky clean. As close to being worthy of her as anything can be.

I also installed a camera and microphone in the corner of the room, so I could monitor every single second. This is what I do. I stalk my perfect angel of a wife.

There is no insurance to sell. My money is made at night, by the gun, while she’s fast asleep, exhausted from making love.

When Jolie first became mine, she didn’t leave the house very often. Only for therapy. Slowly, she started going to the store, clothes shopping, to the beach for walks. And so I began doing those things, too. She just couldn’t see me.

If I tried to explain this burning need to watch Jolie every second of the day, it would come out sounding unhinged. Maybe that’s what it is. I’m not the kind of man who could just go off to work and leave his wife’s safety to chance. I know more than anyone how dangerous this world can be—I am one of the dangers. She was kidnapped once. It won’t happen again.

Other men do not approach her without consequence.

It has happened once or twice and I have handled the situation.

And it is bound to happen again because she is not only fucking beautiful, there is a light inside of her that glows so bright, people can’t help wanting to get near the warmth.

It’s why I refuse to miss a single second of her day. I hold my breath every time she smiles, I groan when she discreetly fixes her bra, I hang on every word that comes out of her mouth during therapy. My dick is hard all day long as I miss her, need her, think of her.

Now, I sit in my car down the street from her self-defense classes, watching on my phone as she is called to the front of the room. Her hands are wrapped in the end of her sweatshirt sleeves, her posture unsure. But she comes forward and gets into the defensive stance as instructed. For most of the class, she has been standing back and watching, but now she performs the moves they were taught—striking the instructor—and she kills it.

“Fuck yeah, Jolie,” I shout in my car, startling a woman passing with a stroller.

My eyes zip back to the screen in time to witness her shy smile, the way she hugs herself afterwards and I want to hold her so bad in that moment, my throat burns.

When she calls my phone ten minutes later, she has no idea I’m watching her exit the building in my rearview mirror. It’s a challenge to keep my voice even. “Hey, angel eyes. How’d it go?”

“Amazing,” she breathes. “All the other women were so nice and non-judgy. And I just…I-I kicked the instructor and it felt really good. Like I was…I don’t know. Taking control. I want to go back. I’m so glad you bullied me into it.”

“Bullied you?” I laugh.

“Fine.” She smiles into the word. “You finessed me.”

“Much better.” I hold the phone so tight, I’m risking snapping it in half. “I’m proud of you.”

“I’m…proud of me, too.” She blows out a breath and climbs into her car, so I can’t see her anymore and I subdue a note of panic. After all, I know where she’s going next. “I love you so much, Christopher.”

A swallow gets caught in my throat. “I love you more.”

Trust me.

We hang up a moment later and I follow her to the next destination. Therapy.

Truthfully, I felt conflicted about taping the microphone beneath her therapist’s desk two months ago, but it was too tempting to have full access to Jolie’s hopes, fears, musings. Since I started listening, they’ve mainly talked about her kidnapping. I’ve been discussed, too, and there have been no complaints. Although her therapist, Elmira, did question Jolie’s rush to get married.

I didn’t like that.

Thankfully, the issue wasn’t pressed and they went back to dealing with what happened to Jolie at the hands of Joseph Hynes.

I’m sitting in a coffee shop across the street from her therapist’s office, listening through an earbud as Elmira greets Jolie. The husky warmth of my wife’s voice makes me immediately stiff under the table and I check my cell for the time. Four more hours until we’re home and I can be inside of her. The only time I can let this obsession run wild is when we’re fucking and it’s like letting suppressed air out of a valve. Four more hours. Four more.

“I was wondering if we could talk about something different today,” Jolie says—and I wish I’d installed a camera, too, because I know she’s tucking hair into her ponytail. I love it when she does that. It reminds me of the day we met.

“Of course,” Elmira says smoothly. “This is your time.”

Jolie exhales. “It’s about Christopher.”

My hand tightens around my coffee mug, my pulse starting to sprint. She can’t be unhappy with me so soon, can she? What have I done wrong?

I’ll fix it.

I’ll listen to every single word and I’ll repair myself to suit her better.

“Okay,” the therapist prompts. “What about him?”

Jolie laughs quietly. “It’s kind of embarrassing.”

“There’s no judgment here. Only truth.”

My wife is silent another moment. “The first night Christopher and I were…intimate…he called himself Daddy. He hasn’t done it since that night. And, um, I liked it. A lot. I don’t know how to tell him I liked it and that I want more.”

More.

More.

That word bashes around in my skull. I haven’t been giving her enough?

Unacceptable.

“What do you mean by ‘more’?” Elmira asks, not a hint of censure in her tone.

I lean forward in my chair.

“I mean…my husband is the first man I slept with, so sex is kind of new to me. Still, I’m not naïve. I know our sex life is…” She releases a shaky sound. “Incredible. But ever since he said that word—Daddy—I’ve had fantasies about pushing that boundary.”

“Role playing?”

“Yes. Is there something wrong with me?”

“No.”

“Even if I daydream about taking it…far?”

“Define ‘far’.”

It’s a moment before Jolie answers. “I don’t have daddy issues or anything. I have a perfectly normal relationship with mine, even if we’re not super close. It’s warm. So there’s no underlying problems. Christopher is the only one…inspiring this.” Her pitch deepens. “He has this way of building me up, encouraging me outside the bedroom. But in the bedroom, he’s dominant. Extremely so. I hand over my will and he takes it.” She pauses. “You see, he’s all these things at once. Everything. Filling every need. And it just puts me on my proverbial knees. I want him to have that ultimate power role…because I trust him.”

My fucking breath is sawing in and out of my lungs.

Between my legs, my cock is a stiff pole, pressing against the table.

I’m drawing attention to myself from nearby tables and that’s not good. I’m supposed to be blending in. Being normal. But I never expected to hear my wife confess to wanting me to act as her Daddy. To have the ultimate power role. Jesus, those words are like a drug to me. To a man who craves control when it comes to his wife. I’m one stroke from coming in my pants.

“I want him to be…parental. In bed. That’s what I mean by taking it far.” A pause ensues. “I just want to make sure this doesn’t connect to my trauma in any way.”

Elmira hums. “In my opinion, it doesn’t. Joseph Hynes wasn’t a father figure. The two of you didn’t have sexual contact, nor did he force himself on you. I don’t see a connection.”

“Okay,” Jolie breathes, sounding relieved. “Now I just have to nudge him, I guess.”

I laugh without humor and drain the rest of my coffee.

Nudge me?

Oh, angel eyes. There won’t be a need.