Every man was at heart a measly peasant boy. “I thought you’d like it. Only the best for you, Dylan. Too bad Jamie doesn’t believe that.” Mara tossed a few twigs in the fire and watched the orange flames eat them. The night was warm; they didn’t need the fire, but she needed the atmosphere to work her magic. Respect seemed to be a thing for Dylan, so she repeated, “Jamie’s got no respect for you.”

Dylan took another long drag. “No respect. But you do.” He flopped toward her, all loose muscles and stupid hopes. “You could be my real wife.”

“I’d like that, but I couldn’t. Not while she’s alive.” Mara watched him process that. His mind had slowed to a crawl, making him so easy to read she wanted to laugh. But she didn’t. This was a delicate process, sending out a killer, and she needed all her concentration to make it work. “I would never come between a man and his wife.”

The dumbshit bought it, tail, hooves and hide. “You’re a good girl.”

“Yeah. That’s me.”

“You like me, don’t you?”

She smiled at him, flushed from the drugs and sweaty from the fire. “Of course. Everyone likes you. Maybe I like you more than I should.” She reached into her bag again, into the side pocket, and found the bottle of pills the prison psychiatrist had prescribed for her. These pills were supposed to alter her moods, make the voices stop and the rage dissipate, be a frontal lobotomy so she could function in society without wanting to gruesomely murder everyone and cut off their hands.

She never took these pills. She liked herself as she was. She offered one on the tip of her finger. “This is a good one.”

He took it, stared at it, mouth dropped open, in the flickering light of the fire. “What does it do?”

“It makes you think you’re a king.” With all the other shit in his system, this little white mood-alterer would turn sloppy, wimpy, worthless Dylan into death incarnate.

“I dropped it!” Dylan scrambled around, patting his loose shorts, his skinny calves, the sand beneath his feet.

Mara sighed, but softly, and brought out another pill. Putting it on the tip of her finger, she said, “Open wide!” and shoved it into his mouth, far enough that he couldn’t lose it.

He gagged a little.

She handed him the bottle of scotch again. “Swallow it! That’s a boy.” She stood up. “You need to go explain to Jamie that she needs to honor and obey you, like your marriage vows said.”

He mumbled, “We didn’t do those—”

“It doesn’t matter what you really vowed. That’s what marriage is, right? The man is in charge. You’re the head of the family. You shouldn’t have to do anything.”