Never lie to me. She repressed a shudder and glanced across the table.
Layla sported a deep frown and was pushing her salad around with a fork. “I have no idea. I guess she didn’t trust me anymore.”
Fiona changed the subject by asking Layla about her family. The president’s aide was newly married and lived with her husband in an apartment building a few blocks away. Her husband’s son had been seventeen at the start of the war, just old enough to fight against the Kall. Sadly, he died during an attack on DC. Fiona could sympathize. The few friends she’d cared about were likely dead. War was ugly, and the terror of it lingered like a horrific dream that followed you all day.
Layla walked Fiona to the gate of her home, and they made plans to meet for lunch in a week. It was nice to have a friend for a change, and Layla seemed genuine enough. Swinging her handbag and humming, Fiona entered the front door and headed for the never-ending staircase. She slipped off her heels—Betsy’s heels (the First Daughter’s wardrobe was part of the package deal)—and heard the door opening behind her.
Rentzaq.
Fuck. Fiona hadn’t taken him along to the café, per Merokk’s ridiculous instructions. She hoped the overglorified bodyguard didn’t rat her out to her husband. Rentzaq nodded politely and disappeared in the direction of the great room. Maybe it didn’t matter. After all, Fiona hadn’t been alone. Layla had kept her company, and the two of them had only ventured a few blocks away. Pushing her worries aside, she traded the uncomfortable heels for a pair of flat shoes and spent the afternoon reading a romance novel in the library. At least Betsy’s taste in books was halfway decent, and at least she’d preferred real books to the electronic ones.
Dinner began pleasantly enough, but Fiona soon became aware of Merokk’s foul mood. He barely commented after she said something, when normally they held a lively discussion during mealtimes. This wasn’t like him, but she didn’t have the guts to question his mood. What if he knew about her indiscretion this afternoon? Worse yet—what if he knew she wasn’t Betsy Carson? She prayed it was the former and finished her dinner in silence, avoiding Merokk’s fuming obsidian eyes.
The servants cleared the table and returned with glasses of wine. Fiona sipped the strong drink and stole glances at her husband. Oh, he looked positively livid. She considered whether or not to confess and couldn’t reach a firm decision. What if she confessed to the wrong crime? What if he was pissed about something else and her admission needlessly incurred his wrath?
“I had an interesting conversation with Rentzaq today,” he said casually. He swirled the wine in his glass and smiled coldly at her.
Fiona’s stomach dropped to her feet, and she froze in her chair, numb with fear. Why had she ignored his stupid rule? The idea of taking a chaperone along on her lunch date seemed pointless given the circumstances with Layla and the fact that the café was only a few blocks away.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” Merokk asked, still swirling his damn glass of wine.
She sighed. Time to pay the piper. “I walked to a café a few blocks away with Layla today, and I didn’t take Rentzaq along. I’m sorry.” Her eyes pleaded for his understanding and lenience. “The city seems safe. We didn’t run into any trouble.”
His next words came out quiet but infused with authority. “Go straight to the bedroom and wait for me. I’ll be up shortly to deal with your disobedience.”
Somehow Fiona found herself sitting on their bed, but she didn’t remember the walk up the stairs. Her heart hammered in her chest, and her throat felt like sandpaper. He was going to spank her. She thought of the times he’d slapped her ass during sex. She’d enjoyed it, even when he let loose and gave it to her good. Of course she wasn’t stupid. An actual punishment would hurt and likely
Layla sported a deep frown and was pushing her salad around with a fork. “I have no idea. I guess she didn’t trust me anymore.”
Fiona changed the subject by asking Layla about her family. The president’s aide was newly married and lived with her husband in an apartment building a few blocks away. Her husband’s son had been seventeen at the start of the war, just old enough to fight against the Kall. Sadly, he died during an attack on DC. Fiona could sympathize. The few friends she’d cared about were likely dead. War was ugly, and the terror of it lingered like a horrific dream that followed you all day.
Layla walked Fiona to the gate of her home, and they made plans to meet for lunch in a week. It was nice to have a friend for a change, and Layla seemed genuine enough. Swinging her handbag and humming, Fiona entered the front door and headed for the never-ending staircase. She slipped off her heels—Betsy’s heels (the First Daughter’s wardrobe was part of the package deal)—and heard the door opening behind her.
Rentzaq.
Fuck. Fiona hadn’t taken him along to the café, per Merokk’s ridiculous instructions. She hoped the overglorified bodyguard didn’t rat her out to her husband. Rentzaq nodded politely and disappeared in the direction of the great room. Maybe it didn’t matter. After all, Fiona hadn’t been alone. Layla had kept her company, and the two of them had only ventured a few blocks away. Pushing her worries aside, she traded the uncomfortable heels for a pair of flat shoes and spent the afternoon reading a romance novel in the library. At least Betsy’s taste in books was halfway decent, and at least she’d preferred real books to the electronic ones.
Dinner began pleasantly enough, but Fiona soon became aware of Merokk’s foul mood. He barely commented after she said something, when normally they held a lively discussion during mealtimes. This wasn’t like him, but she didn’t have the guts to question his mood. What if he knew about her indiscretion this afternoon? Worse yet—what if he knew she wasn’t Betsy Carson? She prayed it was the former and finished her dinner in silence, avoiding Merokk’s fuming obsidian eyes.
The servants cleared the table and returned with glasses of wine. Fiona sipped the strong drink and stole glances at her husband. Oh, he looked positively livid. She considered whether or not to confess and couldn’t reach a firm decision. What if she confessed to the wrong crime? What if he was pissed about something else and her admission needlessly incurred his wrath?
“I had an interesting conversation with Rentzaq today,” he said casually. He swirled the wine in his glass and smiled coldly at her.
Fiona’s stomach dropped to her feet, and she froze in her chair, numb with fear. Why had she ignored his stupid rule? The idea of taking a chaperone along on her lunch date seemed pointless given the circumstances with Layla and the fact that the café was only a few blocks away.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” Merokk asked, still swirling his damn glass of wine.
She sighed. Time to pay the piper. “I walked to a café a few blocks away with Layla today, and I didn’t take Rentzaq along. I’m sorry.” Her eyes pleaded for his understanding and lenience. “The city seems safe. We didn’t run into any trouble.”
His next words came out quiet but infused with authority. “Go straight to the bedroom and wait for me. I’ll be up shortly to deal with your disobedience.”
Somehow Fiona found herself sitting on their bed, but she didn’t remember the walk up the stairs. Her heart hammered in her chest, and her throat felt like sandpaper. He was going to spank her. She thought of the times he’d slapped her ass during sex. She’d enjoyed it, even when he let loose and gave it to her good. Of course she wasn’t stupid. An actual punishment would hurt and likely
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