Two. Weeks.
It’s been two motherfucking weeks since I’ve had sex with Savannah and if she tries to make it three, I’m going to tie her to the bed and change her fucking mind.
I’m turning onto my street, wondering if I have the right type of rope at the house, when my phone starts to ring.
The screen in my dashboard shows Mayor Devon calling, and I shake my head.
Thought little brother Devon might actually take my threat to heart and leave town without involving his brother.
But apparently not.
Since I’ve had a lot of sexually frustrated time on my hands these past few weeks, I’ve been keeping myself busy by fucking up the lives of men I don’t like.
First, I hunted down all the information I could on Christopher Devon, my caller’s baby brother. I saw that he spent one night in the hospital having surgery done on both of his elbows after he fell down some stairs. And I made sure to recode the surgery before billing sent it to insurance, ensuring that insurance will deny the claim and Christopher will be on the hook for an awfully large medical bill.
After that, when I saw he was discharged but didn’t use his credit card anywhere indicating where he’d gone, I dug around and found all his 401k information. And our boy has some sense because he’d put away a decent amount. A decent amount that I siphoned straight into a trust fund, which will automatically disperse to his son when he turns eighteen, in six years. Considering good old Christopher hasn’t been paying child support, for a kid he never visits, it’s the least he could do.
Sure, Christopher will figure it out when his accounts are empty the next time one of those quarterly statements gets mailed out to him. But then again, I did change his address to a PO Box in Alabama, so it might be a bit before he gets around to picking up his mail.
I also dropped his credit score by one hundred points. Because I could.
I mean really, what’s the point in being a good hacker if you’re not going to use it for good?
Then, since that only took the better part of the day, I’ve entertained myself by purchasing a pile of companies. Companies that just so happen to employ all of Savannah’s exes.
After that dinner party at Aspen’s, when Savannah was busy burning that painting and getting high, I was busy digging through every last phone and social media record, hunting down her ex-boyfriends. They all seem like decent, upstanding citizens, with no history of violence and no bad blood between them and Savannah, but I couldn’t just let them carry on living in my state.
Hence, finding where they worked and purchasing the companies.
A couple of the businesses were already for sale. And some, well, everyone has a price.
And, of course, as is common with new ownership, each company experienced a bit of a downsize.
By exactly one position.
But since, contrary to popular belief, I’m not a complete monster, I offered them all new jobs. At a company I purchased in Alaska.
The offers were all more than fair, quite literally an offer they couldn’t turn down. So, by the end of next week, every man that’s ever been intimate with my wife will be moving over three thousand miles away.
My phone keeps ringing.
And if the Minneapolis mayor was smart, he’d have sent his brother to Alaska, too.
But instead, he’s calling me. Proving just how not smart he is.
“What?” I demand, when the line connects.
“Uh, yes, well, King,” Mayor Devon stumbles over his words.
“Mr. Vass,” I correct him.
I can hear his annoyance even though he’s trying to hide it. “Mr. Vass.”
I slow my vehicle as I reach my property and the gate slides open. “I hope you’re not calling about your brother.”
I’ve had a handful of interactions with the mayor during his tenure, but he’d have to be a special sort of delusional if he thinks being a fucking city official gives him any sort of protection against me.
“Well, in fact, I am.” He tries for a self-righteous tone.
I let him hear my sigh before using his first name. “Oscar.”
He pauses, probably wanting to insist I call him Mr. Devon, but he doesn’t.
Next election I’m giving a million dollars to whoever runs against this tool.
“Christopher didn’t know she was…” He starts rambling some bullshit excuses, but I stop listening. Because I’m pulling up my driveway, and parked in front of my house is a douchey bright white G Wagon that I don’t recognize.
“Shut up!” I shout, and the mayor wisely stops speaking. I stomp on the gas and race the rest of the way to my house. “The only reason I didn’t make your pig of a brother a missing person that night is because my sister didn’t want me to ruin her party. But the event is done. And so is my patience.” I slam the car into park. “I told him exactly what would happen if I saw him again. And I don’t fucking exaggerate.”
I cut the call and exit my SUV, crossing the distance to the front door in three strides.
I don’t know if I need to stop firing my security guards, or if I need to fire all of them, because I’m supposed to be alerted about every fucking visitor. And no one said a fucking word to me about someone being here.
Clenching my jaw, I fling the door open and head straight to the center of the house.
This person isn’t here for me, so that leaves only a few options on where they’d be.
When I storm into the kitchen, there’s no one.
Studio.
I’m not even halfway down the hall to Savannah’s studio when I hear the voices. Hers. And a man’s voice.
I take two running steps before I realize what I’m doing.
I can hear Savannah talking in an upbeat rhythm, her voice light and happy, so it’s not like the man is hurting her.
The man that I don’t know, who’s in her private home studio.
The door’s been left wide open, which saves me from breaking it down.
When I step into the room, my gaze zeroes in on Savannah’s back as she lifts one of her completed canvases off an easel and replaces it with a different painting.
I’m not sure what they’re doing, but she’s wearing loose black pants and a fitted shirt, not her usual painting clothes.
Duke is lounging on the floor near her, but his lifted head is aimed at me.
At least someone is aware of their surroundings.
“I think the cluster idea is best.” Savannah lifts another painting, holding it up next to the first. “All the tones grouped together by family.”
“Agreed,” the male voice jerks my attention over to the man, whose back is also to me, while he drags two easels closer together. “Then we can alternate the groupings in contrasting––Gah!”
I’m already moving towards him, when the man turns mid-sentence and spots me.
Picking up on my body language, Duke is at my side before I even make it three strides, growling low in his throat.
“What are you…” Savannah starts to laugh, but then she turns and must see me because she shouts my name.
When I don’t stop, she tries again. “Husband!”
“Husband?!” The man––who is about my height, closer to Savannah’s age, and better looking than I care for a man to be around my wife––stumbles back into one of the easels.
“Who the fuck are you?” My voice is louder than strictly necessary and Duke echoes it by barking twice before he goes back to growling.
Duke won’t do more than make noise unless I tell him to. And right now, I’m tempted to tell him to.
The man catches Savannah’s painting before it can fall.
“Orlando!” He holds the painting in front of himself like a shield. “I’m Orlando!”
I’m less than ten feet away from the man named Orlando when Savannah slides into my path on sock-covered feet.
“Jesus Christ, King! He’s here for––”
She’s looking at me like I’m crazy, but her actions just changed the direction of my anger.
Instinct makes me snap my fingers, once, and the loud sound is enough to stop Savannah’s tirade.
Her mouth shuts and I prowl toward her. “Don’t you ever put yourself between me and another man again.”
“That’s not…” Savannah’s breath hitches and I watch her eyes drop to my mouth, then lower.
Oh, this sneaky brat. She’s been keeping me on ice, acting unaffected by our lack of touch over these last two weeks, but she’s just as fucking hot for it as I am.
Savannah takes a slow breath. “I’m not getting between you.”
I lift a hand, gesturing to the fact that she is literally between us.
Savannah huffs, “I was just trying to stop you from going all psychopath on him, since I’m pretty sure just yelling from the sidelines wasn’t going to stop you.” She spares Duke a narrowed eye look. “Or you.”
I don’t respond to her reasoning, because it’s probably correct. “You don’t have men over when I’m not home.”
She shoves her little fists onto her hips. “This is work, not me having men over. It’s not my fault that you just disappear randomly during the day.”
“Randomly?” I lean in closer. “I have never left this house without leaving you a note telling you where I’ve gone. Can you say the same?”
Her cheeks tinge red. “That was different,” she hisses.
“And this,” I point over her shoulder at the man still hiding behind a painting, “is unacceptable.”
“It’s just Orlando.”
“I don’t know Orlando. So, I don’t trust Orlando.” I make sure to emphasize his stupid name.
“Promise I’m trustworthy,” Orlando tries to smile when I raise my gaze to him.
I keep my eyes on his. “I broke the arms of the last man who touched my wife.”
Orlando’s eyes widen as his smile falters . And I think he believes me. As he should.
“My King.” Savannah’s voice is quiet, just for me.
Her hand presses against my chest.
That point of contact is what I need. What I’ve been needing.
I lay my hand over hers, holding it in place, and the connection allows the tension to flow out of me.
Calmer, I ask her, “Is he here because of your show tomorrow?”
She blinks, like maybe she thought I forgot she had an art showing tomorrow night. “Yes. We’re picking the final layout and prices. Did you really break his arms?”
“Yes,” I answer as simply as she did. “Do you need help bringing these to the gallery?”
She shakes her head. “Orlando will bring them over tonight, after we finalize the order.”
“Are you done?”
Her head shakes again. “We just started.”
I take a long slow inhale. “Alright.”
“Alright?”
Letting go of her hand, I pat my thigh and Duke to step to my side. “Alright, do your thing.”
I imagine Savannah’s changing expression, when instead of heading to the door, I head to one of the lounge chairs she still has in here.
It’s facing the window, so I grip the back and noisily drag it so it’s facing the room. So I can watch Orlando.
Savannah is standing where I left her, one brow raised, looking deliciously annoyed. “Seriously? Don’t you have something better to do?”
“Certainly.” I make sure she can feel my eyes dragging down her body as I lower my frame into the chair. “But I’ll do that later.”
