Karl sat at the small iron table, the glass of whiskey forgotten in his hand.
A cold evening wind blew up from the cliff, rustling the garden plants around him, but he barely felt it. He was completely lost in his thoughts.
For fifteen years, he had worked as a mercenary. He had fought in dirty border conflicts, taken contracts no one else wanted, and done whatever it took to survive, earn money, and build a name. He understood pain. He had broken bones and taken bullets, and he knew death was always part of the job.
Yet in all his years of blood and grit, he had never tasted a humiliation this vile.
No matter how hard he tried to focus, he couldn't get the image out of his head: Naomi. His wife, a hardened operator who barely let anyone into her personal orbit, sitting submissively in the lap of another man.
And he could still see that man's hands roaming freely across her body, touching places only he was supposed to know, without the slightest hesitation.
