As he stepped through the open doorway to the master bedroom, shock and agony nearly buckled his knees. He grabbed the doorjamb for support, still not believing his eyes.
Across the room, Karen--his Karen!--writhed in the arms of another man, the pair so caught up in the frenzy of lust that neither noticed him. Clothing had been dropped on the way to the bed like a trail of bread crumbs. Sheets and blankets hung to the floor, torn loose from the mattress.
Pain congealed into rage, creating a dangerous stew of emotions boiling out of control. On the night table sat a bottle of wine--his wine!--two glasses and a cheeseboard. The knife had bits of brie stuck to its polished blade. Odd how the trivial detail registered with such stark clarity. In his mind's eye, Mason watched his fingers close around the polished mahogany handle. So tempting. So easily done.
A tiny voice of reason screamed above the din of burgeoning insanity. He could kill them, yes, but he'd destroy himself in the process. Jealousy roared at him to cross the room, pick up the knife and end her betrayal, but reason countered that it would change nothing, that he needed to survive. Mason couldn't think of a single reason why survival was relevant or even desirable at that point, but he kept his place by the door.
Beyond speech, he forced badly needed air into his lungs and announced his presence by clearing his throat. If a bomb had gone off, it couldn't have had more impact
Karen whirled around, her dark eyes huge with shock. "Oh, God, Mason, no!"
Her lover leapt from the bed and backed against the wall. Raking his long pale hair from his face with one hand, he grabbed his pants from the floor with the other and covered himself. Karen scrambled for a blanket. Neither dared take their eyes from the dangerously still husband standing in the doorway.
Devastated and nearly blind with fury, Mason stepped forward. Karen's lover cringed, lifting his hand in a warding-off gesture. "Let's not overreact here, man."
His young voice quavered and Mason, for the first time, took a good look at him. He couldn't have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three, and was as fair as Mason was dark. He was a good head shorter but had the physique of a bodybuilder and the advantage of a dozen or more years. Mason wondered if he could take the guy in a straight-up fight. God, how he wanted to find out.
Wild-eyed, Karen's boy toy looked to her for help. "Talk to him!"
The outburst turned the tide. If the bastard had shown any backbone at all, Mason would have beaten him to a pulp--or at least attempted to. But what would it accomplish? Inside, a dam broke, and the urge to fight drained away.
Deliberately, Mason turned his attention to his wife. "I suggest you both get dressed. We have some things to discuss." The dead cold in his baritone was a strange companion to the howling grief in his soul, but the control pleased him. He'd always taken comfort in his ability to withdraw behind a cool facade when trouble threatened to upend his world. Never before had he needed that ability as he did now; never before had he been so grateful for it.
Unable to watch any longer, he left the room. In a fog of shock and disbelief, he wandered down to the kitchen, sagged against the counter and stared blindly into the sink. Willpower alone kept him upright.
Love was something he'd never had much experience with growing up. And as an adult he'd been reluctant to open himself to that kind of vulnerability. Being a loner wasn't comfortable, but it was, at least, familiar.
The day he'd met Karen, her beauty had staggered him. Women often pursued him, a nuisance he preferred to avoid. When she'd expressed an interest in him, he'd tried his usual evasive tactics, but this time his brittle, barely adequate responses to attempts at conversation had lacked their usual conviction. She'd seemed to view getting beneath his guard as a personal challenge. Gradually, over several months, she'd worked her way in. Once she'd reached his heart, he'd fallen hard.
Muted voices sounded from the entry. He heard the front door open, then close--but he stayed where he was. Then Karen stepped into the kitchen alone.
"Mason, please," she whined. "I'm sorry."
Slowly, he turned to face the death of his marriage, of his dreams.