© copyright 2005 Jaycee Clark

Prologue

He was lying.

Sorry son of a bitch.  She tossed on her side, wishing she could believe him.  Wishing she knew for certain that he told the truth, but there were too many doubts niggling at the back of her mind.

Was he right? Was it simply her?  She was gone so much with work that she wouldn’t know a real relationship even if she was in one?  He looked the part of a successful, handsome, studio owner, with his designer clothes, modern, short styled blond hair, gym toned body and perfectly aligned face.

And their wedding was in two weeks.

She should have thought twice back when she realized he was so perfect because he paid to look that way. 

But he was handsome and sweet…and everyone knew he treated her like a freaking princess…

Why the cold feet?

Because some part of her knew he’d been unfaithful, and she simply couldn’t stomach that.  Couldn’t believe his lies, though God knew she wanted to.  But she couldn’t.  How, even why would she tie herself to a man she wouldn’t be able to trust in the long haul?  And that’s what she wanted—a partner, some to trust impeccably, unconditionally.

God, she was tired. Tired of it all.

Flinging her arm up over her face, she wished for sleep.  The airconditioner softly hummed as it kicked on.  He liked it cold.  It was probably sixty-five degrees outside and still he kept the damn thing turned down to freezing.  Leaning down, she grabbed the down comforter and pulled it up to her chin, again covering her eyes with her arm.  God, she was an idiot, who didn’t want to be treated like a princess, a sheltered stupid princess, with that slight condescension in his voice.  She knew he’d lied to her, the question was … who was the other woman.  Did it even matter?

Her thoughts circled, never answering, never stopping, only birthing more questions.  Sighing, she closed her eyes and hoped the jerk was uncomfortable out on the couch.  She shifted, the soft worn sheets cold against her legs.  Breathing deep, she tried to relax, a headache already pricking the back of her neck.

Tomorrow, she was making certain his ass was out.  This was her house, damn it.  She’d signed the papers before she’d ever met him.  He was leaving.  No more freezing because he liked it cold.  No more condescension.  No more listening, no more bullshit.  Tomorrow…

*****

He looked down at her, wondering why, wondering… wondering…

Stupid bitch.

Blood dripped off his knife, plopped onto the off-white silk comforter.  In the dim lights, he could see her hair, dark against the pale sheets.  Her body sprawled, the comforter only halfway up her torso.

Lust hit him hard, pulsing in his already aroused body.

The metallic scent of blood swirled with the perfume of vanilla.  He frowned, and for a moment, wondered.

But no.  It was her.  Same. Different. Same. Didn’t matter. He had them both.

He smiled.  No more.  He’d rid himself of her…them…him.  All with a flick of the wrist.

Stupid, lying bitch.

She’d claimed to love him.  To obey and cherish him.  To honor him.  And what did she do?  What?

Lied.  She lied. To him.  Disavowed their marriage.  A marriage.  A marriage.  Holy, holy sacrament. Now it was time to pay the price.

He moved the knife one way, then the other. 

For a moment, lucidity seemed to break through…  The woman in the bed was not the one he wanted.

Then she turned.

Pale lights slashed across her face.  A face he knew well.  A face he’d loved.  A face that was his.  His and no one else’s.  That neck, the pulse that beat just there beneath her jaw.  The curve of her collar bone, the slope of her shoulder, the rise of her breast.  They were all…all as familiar to him as his own body.  His hands itched to touch her again.

He frowned.  Hadn’t he already?

His pulse pounded through his veins, the red haze of his vision wavering, pulsing through his head. Harder. Harder.

Kill her.  Kill her.   Kill her.

Her deep in drawn breath, drew him. 

He leaned down, breathed deep the scent of sleep, woman, and vanilla.  Sweet, innocent….Lies!

“Whore,” he whispered.

*****

A noise woke her as something wet dropped on her chin.  She blinked and rolled…

And screamed.

A man, stood above her, leaning down, his face almost to hers, his breath hot, minty against her cheek.

She screamed again and rolled to the other side of the bed.

The covers tangled around her even as she felt the bed give with his weight.

Slapping her hand up to the nightstand, she grabbed the phone.

“Bitch!” he hissed.

She scrambled and crawled, kicking out him, trying to untangle herself from the damn covers.

Please.  Please.  Please.

Again she screamed, punching 9-1-1.  She heard the operator answer.  But had no time to answer as a pain ripped through her shoulder from the back.

She tried to turn, kicked back.

God, what?

She yelled.  “Help!”

Again the pain slashed through her back, deeper this time, and something inside her popped.

The man behind her laughed.

“I’ll teach you.  I’ll show you, bitch.  You belong to me.  Not to him. Not to anyone.  Me.”

Her feet finally found traction on the hardwood floor and she half turned, throwing the phone at him.  He grunted and she pulled herself up.  Pain searing through her back and shoulder.

Stumbling into the hallway, she hit the alarm panel, setting the alarm off.  The dark hallway tilted as she slammed into the wall.

God, help her.  She half stumbled, half ran down the hallway to the living room.  Please, please….

He was right behind her, walking.  She could hear the even, unhurried thump of his shoes over the roaring in her ears, the thunder of her own heart.

As his hand grabbed her arm, she turned and raked her nails down his face.  Terror gave way to reality as the lights from the windows slashed across familiar angles.

God. No!

“What—“

His hand came up and the knife glinted.

“Please,” she managed as he plunged it down.  She threw her arm up to block the weapon, but it sliced across her arm, burning hot before slashing again.  She tried to jerk back, tried to grab for the knife.  Pain seared her palm, sliced into her fingers.  She gasped, felt the blade slash her arm again,  stabbing into her chest.

Her vision greyed.

“Please,” she whispered, trying to wretch her other arm from his grasp.

Again the knife came at her. Slashing, stinging, slashing.  Then, plunging in with another pop.

Blood, hot, warm, its copper filling the air between them. 

She could hear his breath, could feel her life pumping out.

The world greyed, blackened, spots danced before her eyes.

She screamed, tasted blood in the back of her throat.  Coughed wetness even as the floor tilted and she fell.   The floor cold against her cheek.

She felt a trickle of blood run from under her breast, down the side of her torso even as she barely heard him.

“I’ll teach you to know who the hell you belong to.”  She felt him on top of her, felt him moving a hand between them.

Please God, no.

Something hit the side of her face and she whimpered.

His hand fisted in her hair.  “I’m your husband.  Husband!” His hot breath hissed.

“Why?” she whispered, trying to twist away from the questing hand that was rising higher on her thigh.

He slammed her head against the floor, reared up and she saw his hand, the glint of knife again. 

Again pain burst through her head with a sickening thwack.

The world went black.