Secret Wife is A Hero

The black spots in Arla's vision were merging into a curtain.

A tear leaked from the corner of her eye, it rolled down her cheek and landed on the back of Culver's hand.

The sensation seemed to shock him, he flinched, as if the tear were acid.

His grip loosened.

Arla dropped to the floor, her throat made a terrible, wheezing sound.

Culver stood over her, swaying slightly. The drug was still pulsing through him, warping his reality, but the physical contact had grounded him momentarily.

"Speak," he commanded. "Which paper are you with? Did my father send you?"

Arla looked up, her eyes were red-rimmed, filled with terror. She opened her mouth, tried to form the words I don't know, but her vocal cords just vibrated uselessly.

Culver frowned. He crouched down, grabbing her chin roughly, tilted her head back into the moonlight.

"Open," he ordered.

She didn't resist. Even in the dim light, he saw the faint, pale lines deep in her throat-not the jagged scarring of a weapon, but the tell-tale signs of chronic inflammation, as if from a chemical agent.

"Mute," he murmured.

She wasn't an assassin.

The heat in his blood surged again. He needed release.

He grabbed her arm and hauled her up, threw her toward the bed.

Arla landed on the mattress, bouncing once. She scrambled backward, trying to get to the other side, but Culver caught her ankle. He dragged her back down the expanse of the bed.

The silk robe had come loose. It slipped off her shoulders, pooling at her waist.

Culver paused. His gaze traced the landscape of her back. The moonlight highlighted every ridge, every old wound.

"You're a mess," he said. His voice was thick. He ran a finger down a long, pale scar on her spine.

He climbed over her.

Arla flipped onto her back, pushing at his chest. She scratched him, drawing lines of blood across his shoulders.

The pain seemed to focus him, he didn't pull away. He lowered his head and bit down on the soft skin where her neck met her shoulder.

It wasn't a kiss, it was a claim.

Arla stopped fighting. She went limp, staring up at the ceiling, dissociating from the body that was being used.

Culver watched her eyes the whole time. He was looking for something-fear, judgment, recognition. He found none of it, just a vast, empty silence.

When it was over, Arla curled into a ball on the far edge of the bed, pulling the torn robe around herself.

Culver reached for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. The flame of the lighter flared, illuminating his sharp profile. He took a drag, exhaling a cloud of grey smoke.

He picked up the internal phone.

"Julian," he said. "Come in."

Arla squeezed her eyes shut. This was it. The disposal.