The kitchen smelled like lavender bleach and desperation.
It was 7:00 AM. The morning sun was trying to crawl through the blinds, casting long, accusing shadows across the hardwood floor.
Daniel sat at the granite island. A mug of black coffee sat cooling in front of him, untouched. He wasn't drinking it. He was staring at the spot on the beige rug where the blood had been three hours ago.
He had scrubbed it. God, how he had scrubbed it. He had used vinegar, baking soda, and enough industrial cleaner to sterilize a surgical ward. The stain was gone. But he could still see it. A phantom splash of crimson that refused to fade from his memory.
I must have tracked it in, he told himself, the lie tasting like ash in his mouth. I dragged the bodies through the hall. I stepped in it. That's all.
He rubbed his temples. His ribs—the ones Elena had kicked at the warehouse—were throbbing with a dull, rhythmic heat. Every breath was a negotiation with pain.
Creak.
Daniel straightened up instantly. He forced a smile onto his face, burying the Ghost deep inside his chest, locking the monster away behind a mask of suburban fatigue.
Elena walked into the kitchen. She looked... small. She was wearing one of his oversized grey hoodies, the sleeves swallowing her hands. She walked carefully, favoring her right side, her bare feet barely making a sound on the tile. She looked like a victim. She looked like the only pure thing left in his dirty world.
"Hey," Daniel whispered. His voice cracked.
Elena looked up. Her eyes were rimmed with red. She looked exhausted. "Hey."
Daniel stood up and walked over to her. He didn't rush this time. He moved gently, as if she were made of spun glass that might shatter if he breathed too hard. He pulled out a bar stool. "Sit. I made toast. Sourdough. Your favorite."
Elena sat down, wincing slightly as her bruised ribs shifted against the fabric of the hoodie. Daniel caught the wince. His eyes narrowed. A flash of cold, predatory anger flickered behind his pupils—not at her, but at the phantom intruders who had caused her pain.
"I can't eat, Daniel," she murmured, pushing the plate away. "My hands... they're shaking."
She held up a hand. It trembled perfectly. A masterpiece of acting.
Daniel caught her hand in his. His grip was warm, solid, and terrifyingly possessive. "You have to eat, El. You need the strength."
He picked up a piece of buttered toast. He tore off a small corner. He brought it to her lips.
"Open," he commanded softly.
It wasn't a request. It was the tone of a man who would force the world to stop spinning just to make sure his wife was fed. It was suffocating. It was sweet.
Elena looked at him. She opened her mouth. He fed her the toast. His thumb grazed her lower lip, lingering for a second too long.
He's treating me like a child, Elena thought, chewing slowly, tasting the salty butter. Or a pet. But his hands are shaking too.
She swallowed. She reached out and touched his cheek. There was a small, angry cut there—a remnant of the warehouse fight he had missed in the mirror.
"You're hurt," she whispered.
Daniel pulled back slightly, like a dog caught biting. "It's nothing. Just a scratch from the... scuffle."
"Sit," Elena said.
"El, I'm fine—"
"Sit." The command was soft, but it had an edge. A tiny sliver of the Queen peering through the mask.
Daniel sat. Elena hopped off the stool. She moved to the drawer where they kept the first-aid kit. She came back with antiseptic and a cotton pad.
She stepped between his knees. She uncapped the bottle. The sharp smell of alcohol cut through the scent of toast and coffee.
"This might sting," she said.
She dabbed the cut on his cheek. Then, she moved to his arm. The sleeve of his t-shirt was rolled up, revealing the long, angry slice the "Red Queen" had given him at the docks.
Elena froze. Her eyes traced the wound. It wasn't a jagged tear from a struggle. It was a clean, surgical line. The edges were straight. The depth was consistent.
A blade, she realized. Her heart hammered against her bruised ribs. A very sharp, serrated tactical blade. Like the one I carry. I did this. I marked him.
"That doesn't look like a scratch, Daniel," she said, her voice terrifyingly even. "That looks like a knife."
Daniel didn't blink. He watched her face, searching for fear, searching for suspicion. "One of them had a box cutter," he lied smoothly. "I didn't notice until it was over."
Liar, Elena thought. But you lie so beautifully.
"You're so brave," she said aloud, applying a butterfly bandage with the precision of a field medic. She smoothed the adhesive down, her fingers lingering on his bicep. "I don't know what I would do without you."
"You'll never have to find out," Daniel said.
He reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small, black velvet box.
Elena paused. The air in the kitchen grew heavy. "What is this?"
"I was going to give it to you for our anniversary," Daniel said, his voice dropping to that dark, obsessive register again. "But after last night... I want you to have it now."
He opened the box. Inside lay a delicate silver chain with a pendant shaped like a chess piece. The Black King.
"It's beautiful," Elena said.
"Turn around," Daniel murmured.
Elena turned. She swept her hair off her neck. Daniel fastened the clasp. His fingers brushed her skin. The metal felt cold against her throat.
"It has a panic button inside the charm," Daniel whispered into her ear, his breath hot against her neck. "And a GPS chip. Connected directly to my phone. If you ever feel unsafe... if you're ever scared... you press it. And I come running."
Elena touched the pendant. She knew exactly what it was. It wasn't jewelry. It was a leash. It was a high-grade military tracker, probably stolen from his office. He wanted to know where she was every second of the day.
A normal woman would be terrified. The Red Queen was delighted.
He wants to track me? she thought, a small, cold smile playing on her lips that Daniel couldn't see. Good. I'll use it to lead him exactly where I want him to go.
She turned back to face him. She threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder to hide the calculation in her eyes.
"Thank you," she breathed. "I feel safer already."
Daniel wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him. He buried his nose in her hair, inhaling deeply, trying to memorize her scent.
"I won't let anyone touch you, Elena," he vowed. "I'll kill them all first."
They stood there in the sunlit kitchen, swaying slightly. The Doting Husband who had tagged his wife like property. The Sweet Wife who was already planning how to hack the signal.
The masquerade was over. The game had just begun.
End of Chapter 10
Author Note: Daniel thinks he put a leash on a kitten. He doesn't realize he just put a collar on a tiger. Who is controlling who now? Next Chapter: The Neighborhood Gala. Time for some Face-Slapping! Drop a Power Stone if you want to see Elena destroy a socialite! 💎👑