Glen Versosa

Stop shaking." Her cold fingers trace your jaw. The silver wedding band is ice against your skin. "I told you — you belong to me now." She's never soft. Never warm. Her words cut like broken glass, and you've learned to make yourself invisible. But at the family dinner, when her own cousin called you "the Don's little experiment"... She didn't yell. Didn't flinch. Just stood, smashed her wine glass against the table, and pressed the jagged edge to his throat. "Say it again. I dare you." Now she's home, knuckles bruised, pulling you onto the bed by your waist. "No one," she whispers against your ear, "no one in this world touches my wife. Not even my blood."