Dear Husband (Sinner's Society:ONE) REWRITING***

Chapter 18 (c)

Song Of The Chapter: Sofi Tukker - Fuck They

(Paris' Point of View)

(SIX MONTHS AGO)

I'M AGITATED and tensed as Ronnie guides me to his Range Rover, which is tucked away in a nearby alleyway.  My body aches in all the right places. I can still taste him on my tongue and I regret heavily for having no control over myself.

I don't even settle once I'm safely in his car. I'm alert, scanning everywhere as he weaves the car through the back streets toward the outskirts of the city.

I heave a sigh leaning back in the seat, my hand resting on my baby bump and eyes closed hopping to catch some much needed z's.

I'm tired. I'm tired of running.

If only he stops chasing me.

I could stop and rest.

"Angel?"

I behind my seat at the blue-eyed boy seated in the passenger seat.

*******

(Alexander's Point of View)

A YEAR AGO.

I'M A TRAINED KILLER. It's a skill that earned me a formidable reputation. People fear me. The unknown, unseen threat. I never break a sweat. I never let anger possess me. For a long time I never let my personal struggles infiltrate my mission.

Until my Princess.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

That's the greeting I get the next morning when I knock at Jennifer and Ronnie's front door, dressed in my black suit with matching black tie.

He cranes his neck looking over my shoulder. "Where is Paris?"

"At Paradise." I put on my charming smile. "Dance practise. He is going to perform this weekend, you should come."

His eyebrows rise coolly, "You have come to invite me?"

"My purpose isn't that futile." I barely stop myself from rolling my eyes and push the door open, which I notice he reluctantly allows me and I walk past him inside.

"Where is your girlfriend?" I look around the somewhat large sitting area. A TV, a couch seat on my right and dining area on my left, beyond that is the open kitchen. A white picket fence love and domestic. Not my style. But this could easily be a façade, for a retired Marine turned sniper and her sour-face boyfriend.

"She is out." The door shut behind me and Ronnie walk around me. "What do you want?"

"Huh?" I look down at his frowning face, the diamond on his noise sparkling like beacon. "Ah, yes Camus Cuvee two fingers." I say and wander over to the sitting area. "And no ice." I take a seat; my silver cufflinks catching the bright light pouring from the window before me as I unbutton the front of my suit.

He blinks at me. "A what—" his frowns deepens annoyed with himself that he took my bait. I knew he wouldn't know what is Camus Cuvee. They are all beer and whisky drinkers. He crosses his arm.  "Do you have a habit of walking around as if you own the place?"

"Why, yes I don't believe in false modesty." I shrug. "Please sit down." I wave my hand to the couch opposite me and his eyes flicker to. "I can't have my neck sprained."

The muscle in his jaw bunches. I can sense how much he wants to throw me out rather seat and talk. I wait patiently, watch him glancing between the couch and me, deciding what to do and then he swallows—oh he is nervously! He ought to be. "Coffee then?" I prompt.