Page 46 of Love the Way You Lion
Instead, I told myself I could shut it down. That I could go in there, look her in her raccoon-eye-shadowed face, and tell her to back off from my wife, once and for all. But I didn’t shut it down. She opened the door looking smug and unbothered, as if she hadn’t spent the last month trying to coax Minx into some twisted spell that would bring Wilde back from the dead. Her tone was syrupy sweet. Her house smelled like dried blood and lavender.
“You’re here to try and stop me,” she said, already pouring tea like we were girlfriends catching up after brunch.
“Damn right I am.”
“Too late,” she said, smiling like a snake. “The theory’s sound. The spells are aligning. I just need a little more. A final ingredient. A finalpush.”
“You’re not dragging Minx into this.”
She waved a hand. “Deli already said no. Refused flat-out. Said it was wrong—said bringing Wilde back would break the universe, that some laws aren’t meant to be rewritten. She’s been avoiding me ever since you lot dragged her out of that ruin. Typical. She thinks staying away is the same as staying uninvolved.”
For a second, pride swelled in my chest. That’s my Minx.
But then Sari leaned back and said: “You know Wilde asked her to marry him, right? Long before you ever did. Gave her a ring and everything.”
My world stopped. “What the fuck did you just say?”
“Oh, she didn’t tell you that part?” Sari asked, tilting her head with mock concern. “How awkward. You gave her your heart, and she just forgot to mention she already had someone else’s ring once upon a time.”
My fists curled into themselves. “You’re lying.”
“Ask her,” she said lightly, sipping her tea like it was gossip and not a live grenade. “I’m sure she’ll come clean. Eventually.”
I left. I don’t remember how I got out. I don’t remember the drive. Just the pounding in my temples and the sharp taste of betrayal clawing up my throat like bile.
My mate lied—again.
She didn’t tell me when she was hurting after Wilde died. She didn’t tell me she went to Sari first. She didn’t tell me about the ring. And now I’m supposed to sit here and pretend it doesn’t mean anything? What else is she hiding? What other pieces of her past is she keeping quiet because she thinks I’ll get mad? Is that what I’ve become to her? Some temper she has to tiptoe around?
I’ve never asked her to be perfect. I’ve only ever asked her to be honest. And still, she didn’t come to me with this either. So now I’m here, back in our home. My shirt is half-ripped from yanking it off. My boots are scattered somewhere down the hall. I smell like sweat and bourbon and betrayal.
I storm into the gym room, lock the door, and crank the music to near-illegal levels. Sound pours through the speakers like thunder, loud enough to shake the rage loose from my bones.
And then I start todestroy.
I hitthe bag so hard it swings like a pendulum, slamming against its chains, creaking like it might rip free. Good. Let it. Let everything break. Let it all come down.
My fists ache. My wrists protest. I don’t care. I can’t care.
Because now I can’t stop picturing Minx, sliding that ring on her finger, accepting it, holding onto it, never once thinking that maybe I shouldknow. What did she do with it? Does she still have it? Did she keep it somewhere—quietly, privately—like a memory she couldn’t let go of? Like a secret she didn’t trust me to handle?
I slam the bag again, this time with both fists, palms open. The impact rattles my elbows. Why didn’t she tell me? I would’ve understood. I would’ve listened. Even if it stung, even if it tore something open—I would’ve rather had the truth. But now it feels like she let me give her my everything when she hadn’t let go of his.
The mirror across the room shows me my face twisted in fury. My hands shake. My breath comes in short, harsh bursts. I can see the blood where my knuckles split open, dripping down into the padding. Good. Maybe I deserve to bleed.
Sari meant for this to hurt. That’s what really twists the knife. Shewantedthis wedge. She planted it with precision. But the soil she used—Minx’s silence—that’s what let it grow. The bag bursts, and sand spills out like guts, spraying across the floor.
It’s still not enough.
I grab the dumbbells, start curling them not for form, but for fury. My arms scream. My jaw aches from clenching. I think about her in that hospital bed. About the way she trembled when she woke up. About how she reached forme. The thought is acid behind my eyes. My whole chest tightens, like my ribs can’t hold the anger anymore.
The bag’s gone. The weights are dented. The floor is cracked beneath one of the plates I hurled.
And still I want to scream.
So I do. I roar into the silence between songs. A sound that rips something open in my chest. A sound I didn’t even know I was capable of. It doesn’t make it better. I sink to my knees in the mess. Breathing like I just ran a marathon. My hands are shaking. My vision swims.
She’s my wife. My mate. My Minx. And she didn’t trust me with this. Again.
