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His eyes narrowed. “Because I don’t see it?” he tipped his head, leaning in to get right in my face. “Why does that sound like another man has been in your face?” I smirked. “I have a better question. Why are you surprised?” “Stop fucking with me,” Denver growled, fisting the front of my blouse to drag me up against him.
I wasn’t even a little surprised when Denver pulled the gun from the waistband of his exquisitely tailored, bespoke suit. Jeremy had no time to react to the sight of it before it was already under his chin. “Did you just call yourself getting between me and my wife?” Denver asked, his face just inches from Jeremy’s as he peered into his eyes. “I know that’s not what you called yourself doing, right?”
If I see another motherfucker in your face, everybody in this bitch is gonna feel it.”
Come on and sit down and eat then, to get the rest of your energy up. We’ve got plenty of arguing to do, I need your ass ready for it.”
And I followed his other directions too–“put your hands right there, put your foot up here, don’t you dare hold back a single fucking sound.” I did, I did, and I didn’t. I couldn’t.
A little… finesse. “What the fuck are you looking at me like that for?” Okay. A lot of finesse.
The way my loyalty was set up, it wasn’t just about my family or the niggas I called my friends–my damn wife was my one and only, the person I’d ride hardest for, the one I… never wanted to fucking hurt.
“I love you, Kensa. Anything you want from me–anything. Sweetheart, all you’ve gotta do is say it. It’s yours.”
I was going to suffocate. I was sure of it. But… fuck it. I was full of my husband, and what a way that would be to go.
I’d eat it, though, because I was man enough to handle my wife telling me what she would and wouldn’t accept–especially when she didn’t flinch at giving me the same courtesy.
Grief was a raggedy bitch who lived for drama. I’d be better prepared if I ever met her again.

