Page 93 of Remi's War (Four Dark Horsemen 2)

I still need to understand why he married me in the first place.

“My freedom,” I say, and his brow rises. “Will you give me my freedom back?”

We arrive on our floor as he says, “Anything but that, chérie.” With this, he steps inside the spacious living room, and I follow him, studying everything around me.

Black and white dominate the color scheme. I trail my fingers along a leather couch and two chairs that stand adjacent to the fireplace with a small table sporting a stack of books nearby.

Various oil paintings showcasing biblical myths hang on the walls, creating a rather grim atmosphere. Their bloody pictures unsettle me, so I turn toward a shelf that displays a collection of books on myths from every country.

The spotless black marble floor reflects the light shining above us while the open balcony doors allow the breeze to billow the curtains backward. Through the fabric, I catch a glimpse of what’s sure to be a hell of a view.

There is also a glassed shelf holding a collection of silver knives in every size and shape with small notes underneath them, explaining their history and origin.

A small hallway leads to three separate rooms, and I assume one of them is the kitchen.

All in all, this penthouse is boring and bland. With his resources, I expected to see interesting designs and something more.

Instead, it looks like a place he sleeps in but probably doesn’t stay very long.

He doesn’t even have a TV, just a desk a few feet away with a laptop and a bar nearby with so many bottles I wonder if a man can drink that much and not freaking die.

“It’s so—” I try to search for the right words and settle on, “—minimalistic.”

He gives me a smile and removes his jacket, throwing it on the couch, and then rolls his sleeves up, showcasing those damn muscled arms again that got me in this trouble in the first place. “You’re so kind. Although I think you expected to see luxury here.”

My cheeks heat up. “Well, to be honest, usually when people rise to the top, they tend to flaunt their wealth.” This sounds so stupid to my own ears, and I really hate myself for coming off this judgmental and snobbish. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“When I signed on my very first apartment around eight years ago, I bought all the expensive shit I could get my hands on.” He goes to the bar, pours himself a whiskey, and then takes a sip. “I even acquired a car no one else had in this city. It was important to me to show everyone that I finally had the kind of money that could ruin them.” He finishes his drink and places the glass back on the bar with a clunk. “Turns out though that it didn’t really bring me the joy or satisfaction as I hoped. So I got rid of all the unnecessary shit and focused on growing my wealth.” He looks at me, shrugging. “One thing people chasing success need to know is this—you don’t become happier with it. Now, money is all together different.”

“You love money?” I ask, and he nods.

“Of course. How can I not? It allows me all this.” He waves his hand. “People who claim it doesn’t bring happiness never starved in their life. Because trust me, money is freedom.”

I can’t help the next question slipping through my lips. “Did you starve? As a child, I mean?” There isn’t much information about Remi or his family on the internet, just that his father was a gardener and that’s about it. Whenever the press tried to dig deeper, they always got radio silence.

His hollow chuckle echoes through the space, bringing coldness with it, and I rub my arms hating how much self-loathing emits from him when he replies, “Constantly. Poor doesn’t even begin to describe the poverty my parents lived in. But that’s not the worst thing.”

“What was the worst thing?” I dread his answer, because it opens me up to the hideous truths this world has to offer, truths I never encountered firsthand, since my father created a protective bubble around me in France.

“The worst thing is knowing no one gives a fuck how much you suffer. That’s why compassion has no value for me.” He clenches his fist and then starts to unbutton his shirt.

My heart aches imagining a little boy starving for food and facing either rejection or refusal. How many times do you have to experience it to grow cold and heartless?

His parents clearly weren’t great, because anger coats his voice when he speaks about them.

Which shouldn’t be that surprising to me, should it?

Rarely, if ever, did people who grew up in a loving environment turn into psychos hurting others around them.

The minute the thought flashes in my head, it serves as a wake-up call and a reminder of who I really married and that getting to know the monster will bring me no good.

Because his past cannot excuse his present. It just can’t.

Fisting the folds of my dress, I ask, “Where should I sleep tonight?” His brows shoot up. “I’d like to go to bed, if you don’t mind.” The last thing I need right now is to get into an argument with a man I’m not sure how to act around.

I made the decision to not be hysterical, so there is that, but still, no way in hell will I be sleeping with him.

Earlier in the car showed me that my body doesn’t mind his hands on me, but my mind resists, which means I have to hide somewhere at least until tomorrow to figure out what to do next.

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