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I can see the cogs turning in Troy’s mind, and the exact moment his confusion gives way to outrage. “The hell is this? Who the fuck are you?”

There’s whiny petulance in his voice. Troy’s bluster masks his instinctive recognition of someone who outranks him in every way.

Looks. Authority. Ruthlessness.

“Nobody,” I say quickly. “He was just leaving.”

But Zevran doesn’t move. He just stands there in my kitchen with his hands so close to touching me and his gray eyes fixed on Troy. The temperature in the room drops by ten degrees.

“I’m not talking to you,” Troy says, louder now to cover his uncertainty, “I’m talking to him. Get the fuck out of my house.”

Zevran smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

If I don’t do something, things are about to get violent, and I’ll be collateral damage.

“Troy, please.” My voice comes out smaller than I want it to. “He’s no one. Just let him leave.”

The last thing I want is to be alone with my husband in the state he’s in, but maybe it’s not too late for me to smooth things over. I can fetch Troy a beer and soothe his temper by lying through my teeth. I swear I don’t know who he is. I think he had the wrong apartment. Someone in this building must owe a dangerous man a lot of money. He came in here by mistake.

I can fix this. There’s still time.

Zevran turns his head and looks at me, malice dancing in his pale eyes. My heart sinks as I realize I just called him no one.

He’s going to make me pay for that.

“The fuck are you looking at her like that for?” Troy’s voice rises with indignation. “The disrespect in my own house.”

Slowly, deliberately, Zevran lifts his hand and places it on my waist. Sheer provocation.

I can’t help it. I gasp at the feel of his large, warm palm cupping me through my flimsy sundress like he’s the one who owns me, not my husband.

Troy’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head.

“You’re touching my wife? Are you fucking my wife? She’s been frigid with me all these months, but she’s spreading her legs for you?”

The vulgar accusation makes me flinch, but Zevran doesn’t blink. He doesn’t even look at Troy. His pale, glittering eyes are locked on mine with a dark, devouring curiosity.

Slowly, deliberately, his tattooed knuckles travel up my torso, and the contrast of his rough, ink-stained skin against the cheap floral print makes me shiver. His touch drags over the valley between my breasts, pausing just long enough to feel the frantic hammering of my heartbeat, before sliding up to cradle the bare skin of my throat.

“This cold bitch can’t stand to be touched, but she’s putting out for you?” Troy roars, his face turning a mottled purple.

“Cold?” Zevran’s voice drops to a dangerous purr. His thumb caresses the pulse point at my neck, his eyes darkening with sudden hunger. “A woman is only cold when she is handled by a boy who does not know how to make her burn.” The devil’s own smile crosses his perfect lips. “That has not been my experience with your wife.”

A red flush creeps up Troy’s neck.

I’m so screwed.

Predictably, Troy lunges for me. His hand closes around my good wrist, fingers digging in deep enough to leave bruises, reminding me how much stronger he is. He’ll shake me roughly, the bones grinding together in my arm. Then his fists will follow, and pain will blossom in my cheek, in my stomach, anywhere he feels like hitting. A crescendo of blood and tears and agony, and then the long, ugly wind-down. The pacing, the muttering, the occasional return to land one more punch, all the while he reminds me this is my fault for making him lose his temper. It’s happened a dozen times before. It will happen a dozen times more. A thousand times. A despairing thought crosses my mind.

Right up until he finally kills me.

I go somewhere else when it happens. There’s a place in my head that’s quiet and very far away, and I know how to find it quickly now. You get good at the things you practice.

Troy’s grip tightens. He draws back his free hand and forms a fist.

And then the grip on my wrist is…gone.

I was braced for pain, my muscles tensed, jaw locked, breath held against the impact. The absence of pain is almost disorienting. My legs go soft beneath me, and I tighten my grip on the edge of the sink.