First, she’d offered herself as a bride if I’d let her sister go. It had obviously been a test, meant to see if I’d wanted Persephone specifically, or any woman with a uterus and of good health. When I’d told Emmabelle my interest in touching her rivaled my desire to step on every piece of Lego in North America barefoot, she’d proceeded to make idle threats and flex her nonexistent biceps, bullying me with bodily harm.
I’d stared at her impatiently for the duration of her speech, then sent her back to where she came from.
However much I disliked both my sisters-in-law, they seemed completely unaware of what went on in my marriage, and that was good news. It meant that Persephone had kept her mouth shut. Sure, Hunter, Sam, and Devon were privy to the truth—I uttered it aloud in front of them that poker night—but they were my allies.
My wife hopped from Hunter’s desk, sticking the red lollipop back into her mouth.
“All right, hubs. Make it quick.”
I led her to my office, then continued into the private en suite, where the walls weren’t glass, and no one could see us.
I closed the door behind us, then fixed her with a look.
“What are you doing here?”
“Having lunch with friends.” She popped the sucker out of her mouth. The scent of watermelon filled the air, making my dick stir. “Having a good day, hubs?”
“Not particularly.”
“Yeah, I saw in the local news about the demonstration.” She scrunched her little nose, which I sincerely hoped my future kids were going to inherit. “That billboard up there isn’t your best angle, either.”
I stared at her, not sure why I called her in here. I had nothing to say to her. Yet the need to monopolize her time burned in me. I was the one who deserved her attention.
Igot her out of trouble.
Ipaid for her newly indulgent lifestyle.
Iwas the one she should be spending time with.
You don’t want any of these things, you moron.
“What you’re doing in the Arctic is…” She put a hand to her chest.
“Terrible?” I finished for her with a smirk.
“Monstrous.”
“Cry me a river.”
“You’ll probably find a way to pollute it, too.”
“A bit of loyalty wouldn’t kill you, Flower Girl. I’m your husband. Although that’s not saying much, considering you divorced the previous one without his consent.” I leaned over the granite wall, crossing my legs at the ankles.
Her eyes widened.
“Are you kidding me? You’re comparing my divorcing my runaway husband to what you’re doing?” The same blaze of fire I saw when we negotiated our terms returned to her eyes, making my semi a full-blown erection. “You’re ruining our planet for financial gain. The Earth is not your wasteland. Not to mention, you’re driving entire animal groups into extinction. The polar bears and the penguins come to mind.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” I said robotically. A well-rehearsed reply to the same thing I’d heard over and over again.
“No, you’re not.”
“You’re right. I’m not sorry at all. You can’t run your car on adorable.”
“But I can run it on batteries, thanks to Elon Musk,” she dished back, her tone sweet.
“I know women are fond of battery-operated devices, but they’re never as good as the real thing.”
She choked on her lollipop. I wondered if she had an oral fixation. First the cigar, and now this. It was hard to concentrate when her pink lips were always wrapped around something. Especially when it wasn’t my cock.
I could have told her the truth. That the Arctic wasn’t a long-term plan. That I had a greener environmental plan to put my hands on natural gas. A futuristic, twenty-second century invention that was in the works. But I didn’t much mind to be known as the man who was responsible for ruining the world.
“Why are you really here, Persephone?” I pushed off the wall, advancing in her direction, not stopping until we were flush against one another. While emotions were a liability, getting my wife pregnant was a calling.
The faster we could get it done, the sooner we could cease communication.
Her delicate throat bobbed with a swallow. She was plastered to the wall, cornered like an animal. She licked her lips, her blue eyes dropping to my mouth.
“Lunch.” She stuck to her version. “Why else would I be here?”
I put my arm over her head, crowding her, meeting her eyes. I had a few good inches on her, even with her new heels.
“I think you’re here because you owe me something.”
“I’m giving you everything I signed on for. I live in the apartment you’ve designated for me. I’m available to you. I don’t remember you picking up the phone and asking to consummate our marriage.” She arched an eyebrow.
She had delicate eyebrows. Another thing I wouldn’t mind my children getting from her.
In fact, I’d be glad if they took everything from her.
Everything but that bleeding heart.
And that showed you exactly how highly I thought of myself.
“I don’t beg,” I drawled.
“No one asked you to. But if you want to get into my bed, you’ll need to make the required arrangements. It’s not too much to ask.”
She made sense, and that worried me because usually, I was the pragmatic person in the conversation. Any conversation.
“You’re here now,” I noted.
I wasn’t in the mood for sex, but I supposed I had to get it over with at some point.
She beamed around the lollipop, her lips swollen and achingly kissable. “We’re not having sex in your bathroom. I have more self-respect than that.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, half-sardonic, half-hopeful. “So far, you’ve acted like a glorified mail-order bride. Bending over the vanity would be well within your typical behavior.”
She laughed.
She actually laughed.
Flipping her hair to one shoulder, my wife spun on her heel.
“Goodbye, hubs.”
She strutted her way to the door, all fire, sugar, and temptation. She knew exactly what she was doing, and she did it well. No part of her was meek and naïve now.
Not accustomed to having women leave before verbally excusing them, I watched with fascination mixed with annoyance. I’d never had to figure out how to keep someone close. Usually, my status, power, and fat wallet did it for me.
Watching her leave made me feel as though I’d been robbed of something.
“Persephone,” I barked.
She stopped.
“Turn around.”
“No.”
“Don’t make me teach you a lesson.”
“Why?” she asked brightly. “I’m a good student. Although I think I’m the one who is giving you a valuable class today. If you want me to stay, you’re going to have to ask nicely and not order me around.”
My instincts urged me to disregard her. Put her in her place. But that would be acting out of emotions, and I didn’t do those. Normal Cillian—sane Cillian—would humor her to get what he wanted and then discard her.
Quarreling with her wasn’t going to bring me a step closer to triumph. Or to having an heir.
Swallowing down a juicy curse I couldn’t believe I thought about, let alone could utter, I took a breath.
“Please turn around.”
She did, slowly. And for the first time, I realized how awful it felt to be at someone else’s mercy. The humbleness in my situation made me borderline nauseous.
Knock her up and get rid of her. You’ll be the last one to laugh when she is changing diapers and raising your future heirs while you’re deep inside a French socialite.
“Would you like to have dinner with me?” I spat out.
“Yes.” Her smile was warm like the sun, full of promise. “Tonight okay?”
“Tonight’s fine.”
“Why don’t I cook for us?”
Because it will probably taste horrible.
But these were thoughts I needed to filter at least until my objective was achieved. Not being unbearable was a learning curve.
“I have a private chef. We can also order in.”
She shook her head. “Nothing beats a home-cooked meal.”
“Where do you think my chef cooks my meals? Not the bathroom,” I bit out.
Definitely a learning curve.
She laughed. “Your chef doesn’t cook with their heart.”
“Fortunately,” I scowled, “that would be unhygienic. Any preferences?”
Her eyes traveled down to my crotch. Heat rose up my spine. It was the celibacy. I wasn’t used to being dependent on someone else’s availability.
Was this what monogamy felt like? No wonder the divorce rate in Western countries was through the roof.
“Don’t worry about my preferences. Just let me do the cooking. I have one stipulation.”
There were always stipulations with this woman.
But no matter how much I wanted to regret marrying her and not sticking to my Minka Gomes plan, I had to admit Persephone was an aphrodisiac the carnal side of me couldn’t refuse.
Her biting beauty, easy wit, and warm personality gave her a regal shine. Like all rare jewels, I wanted her for myself for the sake of having her.
Tucking my hands into my front pockets, I shot her a look.
“Well?”
“I want it to be at your place.”
“Done.”
I wasn’t a sentimental man. Bringing her to my bed wouldn’t make me associate said bed with her in it. She wasn’t a goddamn safety blanket.
If she thought she was tricking me into developing feelings toward her, she was gravely mistaken.
“See you at seven.” She turned away, leaving me with a hard-on, a bad mood, and the uneasy sense I’d just made a terrible mistake.
Getting rid of her just turned from a plan to a necessity.
I needed to remove my wife from my life before she trickled into my system.
PERSEPHONE
My main issue was, I didn’t know how to cook.
My second issue was, I actually hoped fixing Kill a home-cooked meal (which was very likely to taste like mothballs) was going to make a difference.
But my third and most pressing issue was the one I concentrated on right now—I was pretty sure I was setting my husband’s kitchen on fire.
Maybe it was Karma bitch-slapping me for playing dirty.
Once it had become obvious that Husband Dearest wasn’t going to make the first step to see me, I’d decided to drop by his office and milk a dinner date out of him.
I was desperate to form a connection while he was determined to protect my virtue. In many ways, it felt like having an impotent sugar daddy—I got all the perks but not the dick.
The problem was, I wanted the dick. The shoes were great, but not so great I wanted to moan their names.
I’d asked that it would be at his place because I wanted to invade his space, rip out his walls, and claw my way into his life. Being married to a man who didn’t want me—who actually actively sought ways to get rid of me—felt like swimming against the stream. I was exhausted but determined. Because failure meant heartbreak. And because no matter how much Cillian was trying to prove everyone otherwise, I genuinely believed that deep down (and I meant very deep, as deep as the rigs he drilled), that thing in his chest was a ferocious monster. Locked, chained, and heavily sedated but very much alive.
“Holy fu…what’s that smell?” Petar jogged into the kitchen, grabbing a towel from the counter and flapping it around to clear out the smoke in his path.
Even though we’d agreed on meeting at seven sharp, Kill wasn’t around when I got here. Petar, his estate manager, said he was swimming, getting his daily exercise, and would join me shortly.
Despite the fact I prided myself in not having a temper, I had to keep my irritation in check.