Page 34 of The Hitch
You know, I don't think I've ever seen a genuine smile out of Roman. Must be that weird ex-military bravado that I'm sure he has. I mean, it's not like Roman and I have deep conversations about our past (or anything), but something about the guy justscreamshe was in the military. Maybe it's the faded tattoos, marred by scars. Maybe it's the prematurely graying stubble on his chin. Or maybe it's the fuckin' buzz cut that all the ROTC kids had at my high school.
Focusing on these things quiets the buzzing in my skull to a reasonable level as I follow Dante and Roman into the kitchen. I'm gonna off the guyhere?Marie won't be happy about that, I'm sure. The two men file into the pantry. Dante scoots a bag of rice to the side, revealing a keypad. He pokes in a string of numbers—too fast for me to catch anything.
A tiny beep sounds out, and the back of the pantry opens. He flips a switch on the other side, revealing a secret entrance to… something. The two men—three, really, but one of them is just blubbering against his duct tape gag—descend down the stairs, and I follow.
Grime is smeared across the walls, and the metal stair steps are weirdly sticky. One floor below the main house is what appears to be a goddamn torture chamber. Metal shelving lines the walls, with a few tables that look like they belong in an operating room. Fluorescent lights illuminate the whole space. My pulse hikes up and adrenaline starts to flow. Fuck, is this where he would have kept me?Hashe shoved me down here, and I just don't remember it? It's possible—I've really only been here for a few days.
Fuck, a few days. I haven't even had the chance to think about my life—my job, my apartment—since he snatched me up. It's weird that the diner hasn't tried to call me. I'm definitely a no call, no show at this point. I can't help but giggle at the thought of the stupid diner; it feels so long ago. And here I am, in my husband's murder-basement, about to take out my rage on some rich fucker.
God, my life is weird.
Roman plops the man down on a steel chair positioned above a grate in the floor. That's handy. Dante digs around in a crate and retrieves metal cuffs and chains, then affixes them to Frank's wrists and ankles. He connects the chains to sturdy rings buried in the concrete floor.
The adrenaline floods through my body, mixing anticipation and fear into a murderous frenzy. This isperfect. And my husband seemsverycomfortable in this environment. We might get along better than I thought.
As the thought enters my mind, Dante turns to me and presents our guest with a flourish. "He's ready for you, love."
I step forward, casting my gaze on the table full of implements. Knives, scalpels, a machete, bolt cutters, even something that looks like a flamethrower. I hum in approval as I run my fingers along the machete's handle. Perfectly polished, as if it's never been used. But the way Dante's eyes light up as I handle the weapon shows that's not true—I'm willing to bet it's his favorite.
With a smirk, I put the machete back down. The heavy wooden handle of a hatchet catches my eye. And it feelsgoodin my hand. My eyes roll back in my skull, and a primal groan bubbles from my throat. Francisco's panicked breaths accelerate as he lets out distressed little whimpers.
Quick as a flash, I rear back and strike at his upper arm, nearly severing the limb. The way his skin separates under the sharpened edge is divine—his thick, dark blood spills in wave after wave as I push the hatchet deeper. The duct tape doesn't do much to muffle his agony.
My conscious brain knows this is Francisco. I know. But my irrational brain forces me to see, to hear, tosmellCharlie. My emotions are a roller coaster, and I can't get off. The high of seeing him bleed for me, contrasted with the low of hearing Charlie demean and belittle me. Every snide comment, every squeeze of his wandering hands, every disgusting glance shoves me into overdrive.
I yank the ax out with a shriek and bury it in his chest. Again. And again. The metallic scent of his suffering permeates the air and digs into my lungs, into my very soul. A feral scream escapes from me as I pull back once more and send the hatchet home, deep into Francisco's neck, sending another glorious spurt of man blood down his chest.
Every time my weapon hits flesh, I lose another fragment of my resolve. The fear that I buried so many years ago bubbles to the surface, and I have to fucking fight.
"Fuck you, Charlie!" I sob as I send the hatchet through the last remaining shreds of Charlie-Francisco's throat. With a sickening thud, his head falls from his shoulders and splatters onto the concrete floor. My hands shake violently, and the hatchet clatters down next to the severed head. My thighs tense, and before I know it, I've kicked Charlie-Francisco's lifeless skull against the wall.
Sobs wrack my body and bile rises in my own throat, burning its way up. I force it back down. Arms clamp around my shoulders, and I scream again, pushing them away, no, no, no, no—
"Melody! Melody. You're safe. It's okay. You're safe. He's dead. Holy fuck, he's so very, very dead." Dante spins me around and searches my eyes. God, his are so green. So vibrantly green. Like watered grass on a summer day.
Before I know it, he's wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close, smearing Francisco's blood over the both of us. He kisses me deeply, and I moan into our kiss. His tongue slips between my teeth, and his hand grips my hair at the scalp, pulling my head back. A shiver rolls down my spine as I feel his hard length press into my soft stomach.
He doesn't hate me after watching me lose my shit. At least, I don't think he does. And his cock sure as fuck doesn't hate me.
"Roman," Dante grunts as he breaks our kiss. "Privacy, please."
I can't tear my eyes from Dante, but I can hear Roman ascending the metal stairs and the heavy clunk of the door closing. Dante doesn't flinch at the sound. His arms are a vice around me as he pulls me even closer, like he's trying to get under my skin. I want him to. His teeth trap my lower lip, and I arch into him.
"You're a vision in red, Melody," Dante breathes. "Exquisite. Breathtaking.Mine."
His. Through this marriage of… inconvenience. But the word sends a zap down my spine, and I need him in me, right fucking now.
Dante
The concrete floor is hard and cold under my knees, but Melody is soft. Warm. Striking. I can taste the desperation on her lips, mingling with the salt of her furious tears. She's a force of nature. Rage incarnate. I thought I was the king of violence.
I was wrong. I married the queen.
I want to devour her. I want to latch my claws into her and never let go. My hands move on their own and shove her dress up, revealing the black tights that are already artfully torn. Shewriggles out of the bloodstained dress and leans back on her elbows, looking like a goddess of war.
I'm completely fucked.
Releasing my throbbing cock from the confines of my pants, I reach out and rip the thin fabric of her tights. She's a destructive heat, soaking wet, ready for me. I lay a gentle kiss on her temple and whisper in her ear, "Are you ready?"
