Clipping Thorns (Withered Rose Book 2), page 10
“I am the underboss here,” I say slowly. There’s a warning in my voice, but Conrad doesn’t hear it.
“I don’t care.” He takes a step forward, teeth bared in anger. “I’m not putting my wife in danger because you aren’t done screwing yours.”
My hand is around his throat before he’s even realized I’ve moved. I shove him backwards until he stumbles into the wall, choking and gagging on his own spit.
“Say that again,” I tell him, pressing my thumb against his windpipe.
He sputters incoherently, eyes going wild as he realizes he truly cannot breathe—and I truly do not care. I hold him there, pinned against the wall, until his cheeks turn blue, and his eyes begin to roll to the back of his head. There is slobber sliding out the corners of his mouth, it’s the only reason I let him go—I don’t want his drool to touch me.
He crumples to his knees with a gasp, clutching at his throat and blinking up at me. “I’m sorry, Underboss,” he wheezes.
I look down at him. “Don’t ever speak to me that way again.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeats.
Oberon quickly comes to his aid when I step away and straighten my tie. Vater and Niccolò both give me approving nods, Jameson and Hans smirk like they’re trying not to laugh. Klaus, Tyrese, Trenton, and Aldo stare with wide eyes.
Good.
I’m glad Aldo got to see me fly off. I hope it lets him know he’ll be in worse condition if he ever tries to touch Rosa again. The thought of her in his arms makes me want to strangle him where he stands, but I swallow my rage and say in a dangerously calm voice, “How soon will the shelters be ready for our families?”
Niccolò answers quickly. “The shelters are already available. But you won’t want to move everyone at the same time—it will draw too much attention.”
I nod. “Move the lower ranking families first, just to throw them off.”
Vater agrees. “The rest will follow within the week.”
I turn back to Conrad; he’s standing now, but his tie is loose, and his eyes are bloodshot. “You can move Gisela tomorrow morning if you want. Or you can wait like the rest of us. It’s up to you.”
He nods back but says nothing. I’m not surprised.
“Gentlemen, if that’s all?”
Jameson pulls out another cigar. “I’ll make some arrangements to help with escorting the families.”
Niccolò offers him a light and says, “Our doors will be open and waiting. Just call me when you’re ready to move.”
“Let’s end this here.” My voice leaves no room for argument.
Vater nods. “Go home. Make love to your wives. And get ready for tomorrow.”
Twelve
I’m in a sour mood when I get home. Two of my buildings have been blown up by a bunch of Spaniards and Russians, I’ve got to tell my wife that I made out with a stripper, and once her anger subsides, I have to help her pack her bags because she’s about to be shipped off to a safehouse with all the other women and children.
I have no idea how I’m supposed to broach this subject. I’ve spent my entire adult life going from one woman to the next. I’m inexperienced when it comes to committed relationships, but I’m not stupid. I know what I did was wrong. I know Rosa will not be happy about what went down at The Club. But what makes me feel even worse about it is that I know she won’t be angry—she’ll be hurt.
Yelling, I can deal with. Tantrums, throwing things, even the huffy little fits she has when she catches an attitude with me. I find those quite adorable. But sadness—tears? I groan as I think of Rosa staring up at me with her freakishly big eyes, wide open and full of moisture. I love the way her cheeks and nose turn pink when she’s upset, I love the way the wetness gathers on her long eyelashes. When she’s had a good cry, her lips get puffy and she tends to chew them, making them look soft and plump.
She is a beautifully heartbreaking sight when she’s crying, and it’s at those very moments that I want her the most. But comforting my wife because she’s sad over some crap with her girlfriends is one thing. Being the reason for those tears and puffy lips is another thing entirely.
She’s going to cry forever, I tell myself with a sigh.
A thousand apologies run through my head as I make my way through the house to our bedroom. It’s just after midnight; part of me desperately hopes Rosa has fallen asleep so I’ll have the night to think this over. But my hopes wither as I round the corner and catch the faint glow of light spilling from beneath our bedroom door.
Great.
I gingerly open the large door and find my wife sitting at the vanity in the corner, taking bobby pins out of her hair. She freezes when she spies me in the doorway; there is no joy or happiness on her face at all.
I offer a very pathetic smile and close the door behind me. “Sorry I’m home late.”
She stands. “Where have you been all day?”
“The boys wanted to have a late bachelor party.”
Rosa jerks back like she’s been slapped. “You’ve been out getting drunk while I’ve been home all day?”
I want to sigh, but I feel like that would make things worse. Instead, I close the gap between us and disarm her with a hug. She tenses in my arms and when I release her, I notice some of the anger has washed away, replaced by worry.
“What’s going on?” she asks softly.
“I did something terrible at the bachelor party.”
Silence storms around us.
“Was there alcohol?” she asks slowly.
“Yes.”
“Women?”
I pause long enough for her to squirm and push away from me. When I look down into her eyes, I expect to see tears, but there’s a hard frown on her face instead. She lifts one of her hands and I notice a crumpled slip of paper clutched in her grasp. Before I can wonder what the paper is, she throws it in my face.
“I was here shedding tears over this while you were out hooking up with strippers!” she yells.
The paper smacks me right on the nose and then tumbles down my chest to the floor. I stare down at it in a dumbfounded haze. Rosa’s yelling about how she had to spread her legs for a doctor while I spread mine for some unwholesome woman—exact quote.
I could correct her on how sex actually works, but I’m honestly more interested in the balled-up paper on the floor, so I keep staring at it while she whines about taking a piss test and picking out birth control. I’m vaguely aware of Rosa telling me she cried about the whole thing, but I’m not sure how picking out birth control makes anyone cry, so I’m confused. And also not listening.
I stoop to get the paper, which feels like it takes longer than it should. Either I’m taller than I think, or drunker than I realize. The room sways as I reach for it and then tilts when I stand upright again. I unfold the paper and recognize it’s the results of her pregnancy test.
My breath hitches.
Rosa finally goes silent.
The test is negative.
“I don’t get it.” I frown.
Rosa snatches the paper and shouts, “Of course you don’t! You don’t understand what it means to be a husband at all!”
Anger shoots through me. “You’re kidding, right? I came home to lay out a plan to protect you and the other high-ranking women of the Hunting Grounds, and you say I don’t know what it means to be a husband?” I step closer to her. “I could pack you up and send you off without a word or explanation. But here I am, trying to be a good husband and talk to you about it first.”
“You want to talk about the hooker you slept with tonight instead?” She crosses her arms.
“I didn’t sleep with anyone!” I shout at her. It’s getting harder to control my temper, so I turn away and curse in German, just to put some distance between us. If I was anything like my father or brother, Rosa would be unconscious by now, knocked out by the hand I’m running through my hair.
I feel her come closer as she says behind me. “You didn’t sleep with anyone?”
“No,” I grunt. “But it’s nice to know you jumped to conclusions so easily.”
“It’s not like I don’t have reason to.”
“There you go, bringing up the past again.” I turn around and glare down at her. “But I’m glad you did, because we never addressed your past, princess.”
Her eyebrows go up as her anger shifts to confusion.
I have one word for her. “Aldo.”
Rosa laughs. “You think there was something between me and Aldo?”
“You two seemed pretty comfy at Alicia’s wedding.”
“Olivia,” she snaps.
“Whatever,” I snap back.
“There is nothing with Aldo. There never has been. I can’t believe you would even bring that up.”
“Did you forget the fact that it took you three days to meet me?” When she doesn’t speak, I smirk at her. “Guess he kept you busy after the wedding.”
“To even suggest I was late because I was with another man,” she shakes her head, “you’re despicable.”
“Did you sleep with him?”
Rosa’s mouth drops open. “You are the only man I’ve ever been with. You know that for a fact.”
I laugh and then give her a dark grin. “Baby, you bled like a virgin, but you didn’t moan like one.”
Spit flies out of my mouth as my head whips to the side. My entire body jerks and I lose my footing, stumbling to the right. It takes me a stunned moment to realize I’ve been slapped. But when I regain my bearings and look at my wife, my heart stops.
Rosa’s hands are balled into fists, her jaw is clenched shut tightly, and her eyes are filled with mist. There they are, I breathe, watching as the tears I’ve expected all night finally spill over and rush down her cheeks.
She sucks in a breath. “The next thing you say to me had better be an apology. Until then, we’re done speaking.” She turns to leave.
“An apology?” I repeat, coming to my senses. I march right behind her, following her to the bedroom door. “You think I owe you an apolo—”
The door slams in my face. It’s so abrupt, I actually walk into it and whack my forehead.
My anger is volcanic.
I kick the door down. Rosa screams because she’s only a few feet away in the hallway; her eyes are wide and fretful; her mouth is parted in shock. When she sees the monstrous glare on my face, she turns to run.
I chase her down.
We end up on the floor with her screaming like a mad woman. Her hands fly up and she slaps me good in my face. I grunt, using my weight to overpower her. I grab both her small wrists in my one hand and pin them above her head, then I wedge my knee between her legs to stop her from kicking. She gasps at the sudden intrusion, and everything stops. The wild anger is still there in her eyes, her hair is a mane of tight coils that makes her look somewhat crazed, her lips are puffy and slightly parted. I’m so angry I could scream, but as I stare down at her, panting, I lose my train of thought.
The next moment, I lean down and kiss her. It’s sloppy and wild and uncontrollable. There are no thoughts in my head except the deep-seated urge to claim her as mine. I feel insane as I kiss her. I feel like a pervert, getting off on this show of dominance. But as Rosa moans into my mouth, I realize she’s just as demented as I am.
She frees one of her hands to tear at my clothes and I chuckle as I watch her pop the buttons off my shirt.
We are made for each other.
If I get off on control, then she loses herself in submission. She can fight me all she wants—argue, compromise, make up all these new rules about being equals in this marriage. I’m here for it. Honestly.
But I know my wife.
This is what she wants.
This dominance is what she desires.
And she hates herself for it.
Her kiss burns. It’s almost painful. Gasping, clawing, like we’re two animals fighting for control of ourselves and each other. There is a monster growing between us, and neither of us wants to acknowledge it. We just keep fighting—going through this push and pull for dominance of each other. This is how we settle our fights. This is how we love. It was an argument that ended with Rosa in my bed the first time. I’m not surprised this is happening now.
But what will happen once this is over? When our passion burns out and the flame is extinguished?
I pull back and stare down at my wife. To my pleasure, she looks annoyed by the sudden interruption, but I need to say this. I need to make sure she understands.
“I—I’m not doing this out of anger. I don’t want you to think of rough sex as punishment.”
She gives me a wide-eyed look. “We’re going to have rough sex?”
I was literally about to flip her over and spank her until she screamed in ecstasy. But Rosa’s got this frightened looked on her face now, I feel like if I say that she’ll just squeal and run away. Then I’d have to chase her down again—which I don’t want to do while I’m butt naked.
Instead, I laugh like she’s silly and say, “No, babe. Of course not.”
She raises an eyebrow. Rosa knows me better than I thought.
“I just wanted to try something new,” I confess.
She reaches up and touches my cheek. “Okay.”
That’s all the permission I need. But I don’t want to scare her. I don’t want Rosa’s first experience like this to leave her with scars or reservations. Even though she’s given me permission, I can tell she’s still nervous. Honestly, so am I. Because I taught Rosa how to have sex, but she taught me how to make love.
Tonight, I want to show her I can do both.
I take her slowly at first, so she’ll know what it means to be loved. Then I take her again, so she’ll know what it means to be mine.
Thirteen
I sit up in bed and hold the covers to my chest. Amory is lying beside me, snoring softly. His eyes are closed, but there’s a scowl on his face—even in his sleep, he’s stressed out.
It’s moments like this that give me the most peace. When I can see my husband for who he really is. My eyes travel the lines of his structured face, his perfect jaw and shapely lips, down to his neck and shoulders, where his tattoos begin. I didn’t realize the dark, winding patterns of his black markings covered up dozens of scars. Up close, I can see the wounds of his past, the nightmares he has never mentioned to me.
There is a bullseye on his chest, right over his heart. It’s a fitting place to put the symbol of his gang. Amory loves being a Hunter of New York. He loves the mafia. I wonder if his love for me is just as strong.
I know I have put him through more drama than he wants. I know this marriage has been a challenge for him as much as it has been for me. I know I’m part of the reason he’s scowling in his sleep. But each day he wakes up and smiles at me. Each day, we start over and promise to try again. To give this relationship another shot.
Today is no different.
Amory groans lightly as he shifts beneath the covers and rolls onto his side. His eyes flutter as he blinks away the sleep and looks up at me. He smiles charmingly, and I can’t help but smile back.
“Good morning,” he says. His voice is so low and lazy, the words come out as a dangerous purr.
I fight the instinctive urge to shy away. “Good morning,” I whisper back.
He reaches up and strokes my cheek. “Last night was amazing.”
It was. In ways I can’t even explain. But we can’t ignore the way the night began.
I take a slow breath and lay on my side, so we’re facing each other. “We need to talk.”
He nods slowly, grey eyes focused entirely on me.
“I’m sorry about last night.”
His eyes widen. “You’re sorry?”
“I slapped you last night. Twice.”
He laughs, blasting me with his morning breath. My eyes begin to water.
“I deserved the first slap,” he says honestly. “And the second one was kinky, so we’re good.”
I shift uncomfortably. “It still wasn’t okay.”
“I’m telling you it was. I’m not hurt or offended.” He takes my hand, the one I’d hit him with, and kisses it. “I trust you not to do it again.”
“I won’t,” I whisper.
“I’m sorry for the things I said. It was stupid of me to bring up Aldo.”
“He’s like my brother, Amy,” I explain. “I love him, but only in a familial way.”
Amory’s eyes fill with mischief. “He can be your brother, as long as you know who’s your daddy.”
I stare at him with a deadpan expression until he shifts uncomfortably and sighs. “I know there was nothing between you two. I was just drunk and jealous and guilty.”
“You need to go lighter on the whiskey,” I say gently. It’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to him about since we got back together, but there’s been no time until now. Amory isn’t a Christian—I don’t even know if he believes in God—but he’s always been respectful of my beliefs, and he’s never done anything outside the boundaries of my faith. I don’t expect him to quit drinking entirely, but I know if I ask, he’ll at least cut back.
Amory studies me a moment, like he isn’t sure how to respond to my suggestion. Then his sharp eyes narrow and he looks away, focused on the blankets. “I know. I’ve been thinking the same thing.”
“Amy,” I reach up and touch his cheek, “it isn’t just for my faith. It’s not healthy to use alcohol as a stress reliever.”
He sits up, pulling away from my grasp. “I know, Rosa. Things are more complicated and dangerous than they’ve ever been right now.” He glances at me with an accusatory look on his face. The expression startles me, but I don’t say anything. I steel myself for the slight I know is coming. “Not everyone can just mutter prayers and magically feel better,” he says sharply.
The comment stings, but I don’t let it fester. I sit in silence, staring at my husband as he battles his inner demons. We’ve had fights about my faith before, especially when we were first married. I knew this battle would be long and grueling, but I’ve been preparing for it since Father Serrano told me of God’s plans. I’m not giving up on Amory’s salvation. No matter how much he fights against it.
