The Villain: A Billionaire Romance (Boston Belles Book 2)

The next day, I loitered in the teachers’ lounge during my lunch break, clutching the leftover Trader’s Joe enchilada, shifting from foot to foot like a punished kid.

The welts on my butt were sore, but it was the scars Cillian left on my soul that scorched painfully.

Sex with Kill wasn’t good. No.

It was mind-blowing. Earth-shattering. Like nothing I’d experienced before.

But the swiftness in which he pulled out of me and regained his composure made me so lightheaded I couldn’t breathe. Not because I expected hours of spooning and pillow talk, but the switch from responsive to harsh gave me whiplash. The ferocity of my feelings toward him frightened me, and the need to protect him from harm’s way made me seasick.

Not just seasick, deranged. Immoral.

I’d never sacrificed my morals for Pax.

I got it now. Why Cillian paid for sex. It wasn’t that his tastes ran so much on the unconventional side. He lost control when he was with a woman. He came alive, he cursed, he let go. The layers of inhibition he wrapped himself in shed like a snake’s skin, leaving him exposed and raw. He writhed, and trembled, and growled, his heart racing erratically against my back when he entered me.

I’d gathered my belongings and scurried out of his house before he had the chance to kick me out. I couldn’t risk another rejection. Couldn’t let him walk all over me like I was the Unwelcome rug outside his mansion’s door.

I just hoped the plan I weaved at the charity event was going to work.

“Surprise!” two familiar voices screeched from behind me, pulling me out of my reverie.

I turned around to find Belle and Ash at the door, holding bags of takeout food. I discarded the half-eaten enchilada on one of the round tables.

“What’re you doing here?” I flung my arms over their shoulders, gathering them into a group hug.

“Well, Madame Mayhem doesn’t open until this evening, and staring at the wall at home got old about, let’s see”—my sister checked her Tory Burch watch—“two and a half hours ago.” She strutted in wearing a leather mini dress and an oversized, puffy sweater. Taking a seat at a free table, she unpacked her takeout bags.

“And I had a break in-between classes, so I thought I’d check in on you. You missed our weekly hangout last week, and I got worried. I love my brother, but I also wouldn’t trust him with a plastic spoon.” Aisling laughed.

That’s fair, considering he’d probably try to shove it up my privates.

The scent of meatballs, pasta, fettuccini Alfredo, and garlic bread made my stomach grumble. They both sat down, staring at me expectantly. Right. Guess I needed to join them.

Heaving a sigh, I slid into a chair, hissing when my butt made contact with the plastic.

Cillian, you son of a gun. The minute I pop your heir out, I’m naming him Andrew. Andrea, if it’s a girl.

“So how’s life with Lucifer?” Belle stabbed a meatball with a plastic fork, tossing the whole thing into her mouth.

I spun spaghetti around, giving it some thought. My friends and sister knew Cillian and I lived in separate places, but chalked it up to my wanting to take things slow.

I was too embarrassed to admit the idea to live apart came from him.

Begrudgingly, I had to admit Kill ticked every box on the good husband list, even if on technicality. He spoiled me with a lavish wardrobe and state-of-the-art apartment, paid my debt, kept the bad guys at bay, and worshipped my body in ways I didn’t know were possible, introducing me to things I’d never done before.

He was only stingy with what I craved the most.

Passion. Emotion. Devotion.

Demanding those from Kill wasn’t only breaking our contract but it was also smashing it into minuscule pieces and throwing the dust in the air like confetti.

Not only was it foolish but it was futile, too. Cillian didn’t have the word emotion in his vocabulary, much less an idea of how to feel one. I’d yet to see him sad, hurt, or hopeless. The closest he’d ever gotten to feeling something was annoyance. I irritated him often. But even then, he gained control over his mood with record-breaking speed. Otherwise, my husband reduced his heart to nothing more than a functional organ. An empty, white elephant.

Chewing, I said, “It’s okay, I guess. Every couple has its ups and downs, right?”

Belle’s eyes zipped to my half-open shoulder bag hanging from my seat. A drawing one of my students, Whitley, had made for Greta Veitch peeked from it, with the elderly woman’s name on it, surrounded by flowers and hearts.

“Does he know you still see Pax’s grandmother every week?” Belle asked.

“He found out yesterday.” I sliced a meatball with my plastic fork.

“Snap.” My sister winced. “How did you break the news?”

“I didn’t. Someone else did.”

“Who?” Ash’s cornflower eyes widened.

I didn’t know for sure, but it didn’t take a genius to put two and two together. The Arrowsmiths.

I shrugged. “Not really sure. But it’s out in the open now. He demanded I stop visiting her.”

“Bastard has no right to demand you flush the toilet after taking a dump at his place.” Belle narrowed her eyes, clearly ignoring her vow to stop trash-talking my husband after losing a poker game. “Your marriage came with a hefty price tag, and every feminist bone in your body ain’t one of them.”

“I refused him,” I said calmly.

Ash reached to rub my arm. “At least you tried.”

“And succeeded.” I brought another forkful of spaghetti to my mouth. “He backed off.”

“What?” both Belle and Ash squealed.

“Are you sure?” Aisling looked between my sister and me, her mouth hanging open. “I’ve known Kill since the day I was born and can count his losses on one hand. One finger, actually. Maybe half a finger. A pinky.”

“Positive,” I said, leaning forward and dropping my voice to a whisper. “Can I ask you a few questions, Ash?”

“Goes without saying.”

“Does Cillian have a demon fountain in his garden?”

I’d thought about that fountain since the day Hunter had pointed it out during our time at the ranch but couldn’t find it. Yesterday, while Cillian took me from behind, my eyes searched every point in his garden. My only bet was the fountain was in the small courtyard behind the garden. There was an ivy-laced door with high timber walls that seemed out of style with the rest of the garden.

“He does,” she said. “At least, he did.”

Did.

Of course.

Maybe he just tore the fountain prior to the wedding ceremony. Either way, I knew asking Cillian was futile. I was never going to get a straight answer.

“Thanks. Next question.” I cleared my throat. “Do you know what his beef with Andrew Arrowsmith is about? There seems to be buckets of bad blood between them, but your older brother isn’t the most forthcoming man of our generation.”

“Criminal understatement. You could extract more information from a garlic press.” Belle unscrewed a bottle of water, rolling her eyes. “Hashtag fact.”

“I know of Arrowsmith.” Aisling frowned, weighing her words. “There’s an age gap between Cillian and me. I was still in diapers when he and Arrowsmith were friends, but from my understanding, they were inseparable at a point. The way the story goes—mind you, I picked scraps and pieces of it from different sources and puzzled it all together in my head—Kill and Andrew were best friends from birth. They were born on the same day, at the same Boston hospital, both a little underweight. My father had met Andrew’s father while both of them were watching their newborn sons through a glass window. Shortly after, Athair had hired Andrew’s dad as an accountant for Royal Pipelines. Cillian and Andrew did everything together, and when it was time for Kill to go to Evon as per our family tradition, Athair footed half the bill and sent Andrew along with him. Kill and Andy were like brothers. Spending their summer vacations together. Riding together, having sleepovers, planning world domination side by side. Until Athair fired Andrew’s dad and sued him for all the money he’d stolen from Royal Pipelines, leaving the Arrowsmith family penniless and struggling to make ends meet. Athair cut off the cash flow to Andrew’s education, punishing the son for his father’s sins. Andrew’s dad refused to admit defeat and pull his son out of Evon the first year. He wanted to save face. The family resorted to begging their relatives for loans. Some say Andrew’s mother, Judy, became some rich guy’s plaything to keep their heads above water. Andrew’s parents divorced not long after. He dropped out of Evon the following year and moved into a tiny apartment in Southie with his mother and sister. Their lives fell apart, and so did the close friendship between Andy and Kill. The families drew an invisible line in Boston, splitting it down the middle, avoiding one another at all costs.”

Andrew knows my secret, Kill had said.

I couldn’t think of one thing that would embarrass the immaculate, flawless Cillian Fitzpatrick. But if Andrew used to be his best friend—he had access to his soul, too.

Back when he had one.

“Did Andrew try to retaliate for your father’s decision through Kill?” I asked.

Ash shook her head, hitching a shoulder up, in a beats-me kind of way.

“Mom said the one year Andrew and Cillian spent in Evon together almost cost her a son. My older brother lost a lot of weight, quit playing polo, and withdrew completely from the world. My brother has always been cold and different, but after that year, everyone agreed he’d become, well…” Ash took a deep breath, dropping her gaze to the scarred table in front of us. “Soulless.”

The word slammed into me, bursting like acid. I wanted to flip the table and its contents over and scream, he has a soul. So much soul. More than you’d ever know.

Belle passed me a drink of water, sensing the threads of my poise tattering. Andrew did something terrible to Cillian. That much I was certain of.

And Cillian, in return, became who he was today.

“Thanks for sharing this with me, Ash.” I reached to squeeze her hand.

She sealed my hand in hers. “That’s what sisters-in-law are for, right? Just please don’t tell Kill. He’ll never forgive me.”

“Your secret’s safe with us,” Belle assured her.

The question was, was my husband’s secret safe with Andrew Arrowsmith?

One thing was for sure: I wasn’t about to wait to find out.

Later that day, I walked into an empty apartment.

The nakedness of it didn’t register at first, maybe because I never considered it fully mine.

The furniture remained in place, shiny, futuristic, and cherry-picked by the interior designer. The kitchen appliances twinkled, the quirky family pictures and scented candles I’d brought with me when I moved in were still perched over the mantel.

I strode into my walk-in closet to get ready for a yoga class and realized it was empty.

My clothes were gone. So were my shoes, my toiletries, and the few personal belongings I’d stashed in one of the guest rooms. I tiptoed through the apartment, my pulse stuttering against my wrist. Had I been robbed?

It made no sense. Byrne and Kaminski exited my life, leaving skid marks in their wake. I knew I was under Sam Brennan’s protection for as long as I was Cillian’s wife, which had added a perverse sense of invincibility to my existence.

Besides, burglars would have taken the expensive Jackson Pollock paintings and flashy electronics I hadn’t even bothered to learn how to use.

I padded barefoot to the kitchen and found a note on the granite island.

In the spirit of trying to knock you up and get rid of you as soon as possible, I am moving you to my estate until you are with child.

Faithlessly,

Cillian

My initial instinct was to pick up the phone and inform my husband, in decibels more fitting to an Iron Maiden concert, that the pigs called—they wanted their chauvinism back.

I bit my tongue until warm, thick blood filled my mouth, then drew a ragged breath and decided—again—to beat Kill at his own twisted game.

Cillian was concerned about his position in my life and wanted to keep me close. Whatever bullshit excuse he gave himself for moving my stuff into his mansion—the Arrowsmiths, my visiting Mrs. Veitch, the shape of the moon—didn’t matter. The bottom line was, he was breaking his own rule—no living under the same roof—to keep me close.

It surprised me that he had let me get away with breaking the non-compete clause. When I’d told him I was going to work for Andrew Arrowsmith, and that if it didn’t suit him, he was welcome to file for a divorce, I was almost certain he’d kick me out of his mansion and life.

It had also surprised me how he seemed to accept that I kept in touch with Greta Veitch. Not that he had any say in the matter, but I figured he’d put me through hell once he’d realized I wasn’t going to cater to his whims like everyone else did.

I probably should have told him about my weekly visits to Greta. Then again, Kill never gave me a chance to talk to him. Since he hadn’t asked me about my relationship with Paxton even once, I hadn’t offered any information.

In truth, Pax and I were done before I’d even found out that he lost all our money.

Before I’d set eyes on my ex-husband for the first time.

Before I’d tugged Paxton behind a living sculpture for a make-out session, frantic and full of vengeance, in a pathetic attempt to forget how Cillian rejected me.

Move on.

Marry someone boring, like you.

Paxton had worked at the wedding as a part of the security staff and enjoyed my attentions the entire night. Every time I bumped into Kill, with his frosty detachment, I ran back to Paxton’s arms. By the time the sun rose the next morning, with Sailor and Hunter off to their honeymoon, Paxton was tucked inside my bed, arm flung over my naked back, snoring contently.

He’d stuck around, and I’d never questioned his existence in my life.

I just thought Auntie Tilda had worked her magic and sent me a love to help me forget the one I was never meant to have.

Grabbing my bag, I slid into my Tesla and drove the short distance to Cillian’s house. Petar opened the gate and directed me to my new parking spot. He led me to a room on the second floor, right next to the master bedroom, blabbing happily about the home theater system, jogging trail that framed the property, and indoor pool like an eager realtor.

“Petar, can you show me the demon fountain?” I asked him when we climbed up the stairs.

He froze, then shook his head. “Mr. Fitzpatrick wouldn’t want me to. No.”

Dang it.

I wasn’t surprised to find all my things in my room. My possessions were unpacked, and my clothes folded, hung, and arranged neatly in a walk-in closet.

“Anything you need, just let us know.” Petar bowed his head, an impish beam on his face. “Seriously. A home-cooked meal, extra pillows…the name of a good shrink. I’m at your service, Persephone. On call twenty-four seven.”

Chuckling, I gave him the thumbs-up. “Thanks, Petar. You’re a star.”

He turned to leave while I pulled out my laptop. My yoga class had already started, so I might as well prepare new material for next week’s school lesson plans.

“May I say something?” Petar stopped at the door.

I looked up from my laptop, surprised. “Of course.”

“I can’t tell you how happy everyone in this place is to have you here. I’m not sure how exactly you managed to persuade Mr. Fitzpatrick into moving in—I’ve never seen a woman who wasn’t an employee, his sister, or his mother set foot in this house—but I’m glad nonetheless.”

My smile stayed intact, but something rattled in my chest. Something very close to maternal wrath I couldn’t completely understand. How lonely was Cillian that he hadn’t entertained any women in this place before?

The fact Kill had broken so many of his contract clauses with me had planted a seed of hope in my heart. I knew if I watered it with wishful thinking and faith, it would grow and blossom into expectations.

And expectations from a man who swore to never love you were a dangerous thing.

“I intend to stick around.” I kept my voice neutral.

“I hope you will.” Petar nodded. “And if there’s anything I can do to make you stay, please let me know.”

As soon as he spun on his heel and left, I made my way into Cillian’s room.

I had some homework to do if I wanted to learn who my husband really was.

I ended up dozing off on Cillian’s bed, the mixture of adrenaline, heartache, and anger making my systems crash. I should have gone back to my room, but his linens were drenched with his scent, and the temptation to nuzzle into them was too much. Besides, pissing off my new husband had become something I was dazzlingly good at—why break a tradition?

It was hours later, after the sun had already set, when a nudge to my foot stirred me awake. I stretched on the king-sized bed, blinking the world into focus.

Kill sat on the edge of the mattress, clad in a sharp navy suit, complete with a gray tie and a pea coat. His aroma—of ice, the crisp night, and cedar wood—told me he just got home. Didn’t even stop to take his coat off.

“That’s not your bed,” he announced.

“If I’m good enough to warm it, I’m good enough to sleep in it.”

I pushed up on my elbows, blowing my hair out of my eyes.

“No one said you’re good enough to warm it. I took you on the kitchen counter and against the window, not my bed.”

“Keeping track and cherishing every moment, I see.” I batted my eyelashes.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Aww, but you started it, hubs. What’s the time, anyway?” I looked around. My stomach growled, begging to be fed.

“Nine thirty.”

Jesus Christ and his holy crew.

“Do you always work this late?”

He undid his tie with one hand, shrugging off his coat at the same time.

“My social calendar is—by choice—wide open. As your legs should be every night when I come back home, by the way. It is not my job to undress you to candlelight and Frank Sinatra.”

“I prefer Sam Cooke and incense.”

“I don’t care what you prefer.”

“Rectify that,” I said dryly. “Today. Or live a life of celibacy. I’m not your blowup doll. If you want me to fulfill my marital duties, you better believe you are going to fulfill yours. You will never, ever touch my things without my permission again, move me around like I’m a chess piece, or make a decision about our lives without consulting me first. Additionally, you will be home every evening not a minute after seven, so we can have a meal together before we have sex. Like a normal couple.”

“What part of our relationship gave you the illusion of a normal couple, the fact I bought your ass like you were a discounted bread maker on Black Friday, or had you sign a thirty-seven-page contract, an NDA, and a waiver before putting a ring on your finger?” He tossed his tie and coat on an upholstered recliner in the corner of the room.

I ignored his words. The scar tissue Andrew had wrapped around this man made it hard to pierce through and touch his core.

Tough, but not impossible, I hoped.

I wasn’t a quitter, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to quit on a man who I was pretty sure had been let down by everyone else in his life.

“Furthermore,” I drawled in my teacher tone, ignoring his words, “during dinner, we’ll perform the taxing task of small talk.”

I could swear my husband actually paled. He looked like he was going to gag. I continued, undeterred.

“You’ll tell me about your day, and I’ll do the same. Then, and only then, will we make love.”

His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets at the mention of the L-word.

“The answer is no.”

“Fine. Let’s go through the whole routine where I refuse you a few weeks in a row, and you march back to your bed unsatisfied, then go to the office, see Hunter waving around 3D ultrasound pictures of his future child, then do it my way.” I smiled sunnily. He opened his mouth, about to say something snarky, but he knew I was right.

He needed an heir.

I needed more time to prove to him we could be more.

“Careful, Flower Girl.” He wrapped his cold, strong fingers around my jaw, drawing me close to his lips with a snarl. “Run with scissors and you’ll get hurt.”

“I’ve been cut deep before.”

“Whatever you’re trying to do won’t work.”

“Humor me, then.”

“Humor me first.” He tugged at my leg, one hand still on my neck, and hoisted me into his lap. I straddled him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. My core landed straight on his erection, and when I looked down, I saw it nestled on the side of his leg. Swollen, hard, almost too much to handle.

His fingers trailed the delicate spots on my throat.

“I can give you anything your heart desires, Persephone. Jewelry, lavish vacations, every Hermès bag ever produced.” He brushed a lock of hair from my cheek, his voice so menacing it almost sounded demonic. “But I can’t give you love. Do not ask me for something I am incapable of delivering.”

I pressed my cheek to his palm, kissing it softly, refusing to let his words sink in.

“My heart is a terrible place. Nothing ever grows there.”

“Stop.” I shut him up with a kiss.

Maybe it was because he’d moved me here, into his kingdom. Dragged me to the underworld. Because he wanted to prove to himself that my being here meant nothing.

“Ever step on artificial grass, Flower Girl?” he murmured into my lips.

“Yes,” I growled, kissing him deeper.

“It’s shinier than regular grass but feels awful.”

You don’t feel awful to me.

His lips demanded my surrender. I yielded, riding his muscled thigh, all concerns for my still-sore butt flying out the window. He broke the kiss, his forehead dropping to mine.

“I’m going to ruin every good thing about you.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

I produced what I’d found earlier that evening on my treasure hunt in his room. I’d rummaged through his drawers, using every piece of information I could find to piece together the puzzle of who he was. My husband left much to be desired. He kept his room blank and impersonal.

Having seen his closet, I’d had no doubt Cillian was incapable of anything but an arranged marriage. His clothes were organized not only by season, but also by color, brand, and cut. He wasn’t exactly a fan of surprises.

Kill’s eyes narrowed at the white ribbon I pulled out of my bra. It nestled between my breasts while I was asleep.

“Where did you find this?”

“Your cigar box.”

“You were going through my things.”

“Your talent at deduction is staggering.” I curved an eyebrow, willing my heart to stop somersaulting like a reckless kid in the sun. “You took my things out of my apartment without consulting me. Consider it me getting even. Why did you keep the fastening band?”

“Tradition.”

“Please.” I snorted. “You’re not the sentimental type.”

He pushed off the bed, seizing the ribbon from between my fingers.

“Good point. It’s not too late to throw it out.”

He galloped to the bathroom, presumably to the trash can.

“Shame. You were so good at tying us with it,” I purred from his bed.

He stopped midway, turning around, staring at me in annoyance.

At that moment, all my energy was channeled into not having an orgasm based on that exchange alone. It was fitting that Cillian couldn’t feel anything and I was a puddle of feels. I was angry, depraved, lustful, and desperate. Every sense was heightened, every cell in my body raw with carnal hunger.

“You noticed.” A devilish smirk curved on his face.

I noticed everything about this man, so this wasn’t exactly breaking news.

“Why are you doing that?” I wet my lips.

“Doing what?” His dark eyebrows furrowed in mock innocence.

“Looking at me like I’m your next meal.”

“Because you are,” he deadpanned. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

Something sizzled between us. I couldn’t look away from him.

He advanced toward me. I scooted to the center of the bed. Kill flipped me over on my stomach and pinned me to the mattress. Pressing his knee between my thighs to pry them open while my butt was in the air, he grabbed my wrists and locked them behind my back. The satin of the ribbon fluttered around my wrists, making me shiver. He wrapped the ends of the ribbon, reversing the direction to secure me in place. He did it quickly and expertly, cinching and completing a second loop to ensure I couldn’t move my arms.

“So this is how you knew how to tie us both with one hand,” I panted.

“It’s called a hogtie.” He gave his work of art a tug. “Lift your feet up.”

Next, he tied me by the legs, connecting the ribbon between my wrists and ankles. Like a little piggy about to get barbecued in a fire. I laughed breathlessly, partly because I was aroused and partly because there was something thrilling about giving up control. The bed dipped as Cillian leaned back, examining his work behind me. I couldn’t see his expression, which somehow made things ever hotter.

“Should’ve undressed me first,” I muttered into the linen, frustrated.

I wanted out of my clothes so bad they burned against my skin.

My desire scared me. It was foreign, overwhelming; I enjoyed sex with Paxton, but it was also something I could go without. The famished, depraved notion that came with being with Kill was new and frightening.

“Do you trust me, Persephone?”

His voice sounded so far away, he might as well have been on another planet.

“Yes.”

The speed and conviction in my answer startled me. I didn’t know why I trusted him, or even if I should. I just knew I did. That he would never hurt me. That he would stop if things went too far for my taste.

He got up from the bed and walked to a small desk facing one of his windows. I craned my neck to watch him from my position, tied on his bed, still in my conservative teacher dress. He opened a drawer and returned with a letter opener. My entire body blossomed with goose bumps.

“Sure about that, Flower Girl?” He ran the edge of the letter opener over my calf, so gently and teasingly I wanted to push myself into it.

“I’m not scared.” I trained my voice to sound as bland as his.

I was carefully bowed like a gift—his gift—and I wanted him to unwrap and ravish me.

“Why?” He sounded curious. Almost…hopeful?

No. It couldn’t be.

Hope was an emotion, and Kill didn’t do those.

“Because I know you would never hurt me.”

“That’s an optimistic assumption to make.”

“You saved my life three times, and counting,” I said. “That’s optimistic. I’m realistic.”

The next part happened so fast my head spun. One minute, I was in my dress, and the next, it was ripped from my body by the letter opener in one clean movement. Kill grabbed the fabric so it didn’t cling to my skin and ran the blade through it, all the way down my butt. The dress pooled beneath me while my husband got rid of my panties, clipping them from each side, boomeranging the letter opener back to his nightstand.

I wormed, pushing my ass upward, toward him. It was so brazen that I didn’t recognize myself in the act. I wasn’t that girl. At least I didn’t think I was. But I guessed a dormant part of me was wild all along. I simply never let myself explore it.

Cillian paused. For a moment, everything was so quiet, I half-suspected he wasn’t in the room anymore. Maybe it was a part of the game. The waiting. The suspense. The anticipation.

“Your ass,” he said finally, pulling away from me. “It’s…”

Red as hell. I know. I peed squatting in the air all day.

“Oh, that.” I laughed it off. “My skin is super sensitive. Welsh heritage, and all.”

“I did that to you,” he said gruffly.

“It’s nothing,” I protested. And it was. Yes, he spanked me last night, but it wasn’t something I hadn’t heard about from friends or seen on HBO shows. Heck, I’d been spanked worse by my own mother growing up. And it wasn’t like I hadn’t wiggled my butt in his direction, asking for more.

His hand went to the bondage, and I felt him unfastening it, letting me loose.

“Don’t you dare.” I used my firm teacher voice. “Mr. Fitzpatrick, you did not ask for permission to untie me. You will not do so until I explicitly request it. Am I clear?”

The air was scorched with sex, bloated with endorphins.

“I don’t normally see them the morning after,” he admitted tersely. “I’ve never stopped to wonder what it looks—”

“Don’t tell me about your whores while we’re in bed!”

I was screaming at this point. I was so deep in teacher mode that he was lucky I didn’t send him to time-out. He said nothing, and I was annoyed I couldn’t see what was on his face. “Actually, don’t tell me about them out of it, either.”

“There are no whores anymore,” he barked back. “You made sure of that.”

“Good.” I felt supremely authoritative for someone who was tied naked on a bed. “I hope your mistresses go bankrupt now that you are not there to pay them, and get a real job to support themselves.”

“You’re insane,” he offered, his voice as calm as ever.

“Well, lucky for me, hubs, you’re not charting high on the sanity spectrum, either. Now do what you want to do to me. And make it worth my while.”

Cillian pulled the knot between my wrists and ankles, one gentle hand on my butt cheek. He slipped two fingers between my folds. The sound of my wetness against them filled the room.

I closed my eyes, hissing. “Yes.”

Kill fingered me, the slurps of my want for him drowned by my moans. He curled his fingers when he was inside, hitting my G-spot.

He was a generous lover, something he omitted from our conversation during our negotiations.

He snuck his free hand to my lower belly, propping me up and supporting my body as his mouth joined the party, feasting on my dripping pussy from behind, his tongue lapping between my folds.

Groans of pleasure and delight escaped both our mouths, and I mentally yelled at myself that it meant nothing. That this wasn’t intimacy. It was sex. Foreplay. Nothing but a means to an end for him.

I dropped my head to the black satin pillows, breathing in his singular scent, a white-hot thrill zinging through my spine. The electric currents of an impending orgasm chased one another. I quaked, losing control, mumbling incoherent things into his pillows.

The minute the climax hit me, he withdrew his tongue and fingers, ripped the bondage on my ankles off, and slammed into me in one go. I didn’t know if this was a trick, but it sure made my peak feel twice as violent as it rippled through me. His entire body pressed against my back, his heavy arousal sliding in and out of me from behind.

I groaned, adjusting to his weight on me.

Cillian went very still while he was inside me.

“Tell me to stop.”

“Go harder.” I pushed myself against him.

He did.

We were endless together. One searing entity without a beginning or an end.

He brushed a curtain of hair plastered to the side of my neck, pressing his lips to it as he rode me hard and deep.

“You please me, Persephone.”

I sank my teeth in his skin, not even sure what I was biting. He let me.

Allowed me to touch him, to mark him, to claim him.

Progress.

He came to his release, and I found mine again, in his words.

Once he was done, he untied my wrists, kissed the top of my head, and left the room. His unspoken words were clear and cutting as blades—we were done.

I slipped back to my room, feeling miserable and elated and confused and frustrated and defeated and victorious.

His words echoed inside me like flashes of light through the dark.

You please me, Persephone.

His soul bled all over me tonight.

Now I was expected to fall asleep smeared in his pain.

Cillian and I fell into a routine after that night.

He showed up for our daily dinners obediently, but made it a point to walk through the door three or four minutes after seven, even if it meant waiting in his Aston Martin, scowling at the front door like it was an ingrown hair he couldn’t get rid of.

He defied me like an unruly child, waiting to see how his mother would respond to his pushing the limits. This was a man without limits. A tycoon who had spent his life demanding and receiving everything he’d ever desired, in quick fashion. He was raised in the arms of nannies, private boarding schools, and au pairs who had taught him Latin, table manners, and how to tie a tie four different ways.

No one had taught him love.

Patience.

Compassion.

How to live, laugh, and enjoy the sensation of raindrops on his skin.

No one had shown him humanity.

Maybe that was one of the reasons he was so fond of bondage. It allowed him to remain in control, even in a situation where letting go was required.

Dinners at the Fitzpatrick household were, to put it mildly, a pain in the butt.

I’d tried to spice them up, no pun intended. I’d invited Petar, Emmabelle, Hunter, Sailor, and Aisling to join us a few times each week, since the cook had made enough food to feed the entire neighborhood. One time, I even took it upon myself to invite his parents.

Cillian accepted his new reality with quiet resignation. He was clearly unhappy with the socialization I injected into his life, but he suffered through it, knowing our nights together were worth it.

Not only did we have daily dinners together, but I made sure to fill them with stories about my day. Funny anecdotes about the kids I taught, and things they said and did in the classroom. Most of the time, he answered with monosyllabic groans. He volunteered next to nothing about his days at work and refused to address the Green Living lawsuit.

I knew he wanted to ask me if I ever heard back from Andrew Arrowsmith about that job.

The answer, by the way, was a big, fat, disappointing no.

But I didn’t volunteer any information. Waited for him to ascend from his underworld kingdom and play with his little mortal wife. Take interest. Make conversation.

Something compelled me to still send him pictures of lone clouds whenever I found them in the sky, even though he’d failed to respond. Maybe to remind him miracles did exist, and so did magic.

We made love every night.

Sometimes, it was depraved and rough, and sometimes, it was slow and taunting. It was always a wild exploration. A symphony of new notions and tastes and colors I’d never experienced before.

Three weeks after I moved in, I got my period.

I cried when I saw the first spot of blood on my panties. I wiped my tears, took a shower, threw the underwear in the laundry basket, and drank two glasses of water to calm myself down. It was my second period since I’d started sleeping with my husband.

I wasn’t sure what hurt more—my wanting a baby so much and not getting my wish, or letting Cillian down, which I was undoubtedly going to do.

“Aunt Flow is in town,” I announced during dinnertime. It was one of the rare occasions where it was just the two of us.

“Better than Aunt Tilda, I suppose.” Kill didn’t look up from his plate.

“Is this supposed to be funny?” I asked in a thin voice. He patted the corners of his lips with a napkin, still staring at his plate.

“Thanks for letting me know. I’ll plan my evening accordingly.”

“Have fun,” I gritted out, this time not bothering to hide my disappointment.

“I intend to.”

I didn’t expect a visit from him that night.

To his credit, he managed to hold himself off until half past eleven. I’d listened to him through the adjoining wall of our rooms, going about his evening. Typing on his laptop. Flipping sports channels. Taking business calls.

Finally, there was silence. A knock on my door sounded a few seconds later. I loved that he always asked to come in, never assuming, never demanding.

I opened the door.

We stared at each other for a beat.

“Did you call me?” He frowned.

I suppressed a smile. “No.”

“I thought I heard your voice.”

My chest filled with something warm.

All I did was shake my head. This time, he had to work for it.

“I came for…” He broke off, running his fingers through his silky brown hair, furious with himself. “I don’t know what the hell I came for.”

“Yes, you do,” I said softly.

I wanted to hear it from him. That he enjoyed it. Us. That he didn’t only do it because we were supposed to, but because it made him happy.

God knew it made me happy.

Too happy, maybe.

He leaned down to kiss me. Letting him off the hook was tempting, but for the sake of his synthetic grass heart, I put a hand on his chest, pushing him away.

“Say it.”

His downturned lips flattened, and his eyes hardened. He snapped his knuckles, something I’d noticed he tried not to do when there were other people in the room. He was hanging onto his control. Barely.

“I came here to make out with you middle school style. Happy?”

“Very.” I pulled him by the white V-neck of his shirt into my room, closing the door behind us.

On that night, and the four nights after it, all we did was kiss and fondle and explore. He sucked my nipples until they were too raw and sensitive for me to wear a bra the next day, and I gave him hand jobs while we both stared at my small hand wrapped around his cock in awe.

When my wrist started hurting, I graduated from hand jobs to blow jobs. At first, Cillian was skeptical.

“I like your hands and mouth where I can see them,” he drawled.

“I’m not a rabid animal from the wilderness.” I laughed.

He gave me a jury’s-still-out-on-that sort of look, which made me laugh even harder. I bit down on my teeth.

“Sree?” I asked, my voice was muffled. “Nrro teeth.”

Grinning down at me, he got up from the bed, standing up and lowering my head with his hand until I was on my knees in front of him.

“Fine. But we’ll do it my way. I’ve got requirements.”

“Shocker!” I gasped. We both laughed. Then I said, “I’m listening.”

“Lick it first. Thoroughly.”

He released his cock, velvety, throbbing, and impossibly hard. I captured it in my fist, my fingers barely creating a full circle, and began licking it shaft to tip. He groaned, fisting my hair and tugging on it roughly.

“Faster.”

I obliged.

“More tongue. More saliva. More.”

He ordered with that sharp, princely twang he had that made him sound like the ruler of all things. I did as I was told, getting so wet, I selfishly wished he’d choose not to come, toss me into bed and enter me, Aunt Flow be damned.

“Well,” he said calmly, even as I was doing my best to drive him nuts with my tongue and mouth. “I was going to keep the line between respectful wife and my flings firmly drawn, but I suppose…”

I groaned, continuing to suck and bobbing my head back and forth eagerly.

I want to be your everything. Your sexy nymph and virginal bride.

“I suppose the line has already been crossed. Choke on my cock, you beautiful slut,” he finished his musings by grabbing my hair harder and began to fuck my mouth ruthlessly. Each time, his tip hit the back of my throat. And each time, I almost came when it happened. My eyes got teary, but only because my gag reflex was on high alert.

“Tap my thigh twice if you want me to stop.” His voice hovered above my head. I didn’t want him to stop. I sucked harder, more greedily, taking him all in, moaning like I never had before. I could tell he was getting close to his release. His thighs began to quiver, and that male scent of sex hung thick in the air.

Though he seemed like the type to finish in the mouth, my husband pulled out of me, came into his fist, then tenderly—almost longingly—used his cum-covered fingers to wipe my hair from my face, tilting my chin up.

“That was good,” he said. “You get an A+, Flower Girl.”

“Then why didn’t you come in my mouth?” I tried very hard not to whine and, in my opinion, almost succeeded.

“Instinct, I suppose.” He was already getting dressed. “Escorts have been known to steal billionaires’ sperm. My ground rules are I always bring my own condoms and never leave my cum unattended.” He lowered himself to his knees, so we were almost eye to eye. “Now, how about I return the favor and eat that sweet pussy?”

My eyes widened. “On my period? Never.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.”

“Fine. Nipples it is.”

He didn’t stop until he made me come.

It was the first time I came like this.

One of many firsts my husband introduced me to.

While my home life was still far from blissful, it was resembling normalcy more and more every day. My husband was mine, at least for the time being.

I knew he wasn’t seeing other women.

That he was faithful and desired me.

Even Ash, Belle, and Sailor backed down from badmouthing Kill. Maybe it was because of the poker game they’d lost to him, or maybe they had noticed I’d been happier since moving into my husband’s house, but they seemed accepting of my new relationship.

Some nights, I would look out the window at a lone cloud and talk to Auntie Tilda. I’d tell her about my life. My job, my plans, my new marriage.

She always stuck around until I got sleepy.

Never sailed away before I said my goodbyes.

And so, I’d forgotten a very important lesson Auntie Tilda had taught me when I was younger.

I believed I could change my husband.

I was wrong.

It took a full month for Joelle Arrowsmith to pick up the phone and give me a call.

She explained her husband gave her my phone number and asked if I could help the twins for a few hours under her supervision. Trace letters and numbers with them.

“They fell a bit behind on the material. As you know, there are certain milestones they need to hit by the time they go to first grade,” she huffed over the phone.

I knew this well. As a pre-K teacher, my job was to teach children age four and five to use training scissors, know their letters and numbers, and sharpen their intellectual and physical skills so they’d arrive at public school equipped.

We agreed I’d come to their house the following Saturday. It worked well because Saturdays were my day to visit Greta Veitch, something I did religiously despite my husband’s disdain. I could easily slip out early and use the extra hours to spend time with Tinder and Tree.

It wasn’t like Cillian was at the house during the weekends.

He went to his ranch to spend time with his horses and never invited me. My husband always made his way back from the ranch to our house in time to consummate our marriage, but woke up extra early the next day to leave before I woke up. God forbid we’d have breakfast together.

I arrived at the Arrowsmiths’ house first thing Saturday morning. Joelle opened the door, her hair sticking out in every direction and bloodshot eyes, and waved me in.

“God, you look fresh as a daisy.” She sounded disappointed.

I laughed. “Well, I try to get eight hours of sleep every night.”

“The twins wake up several times a night to go to the bathroom and ask for water.”

“You need to sleep train them,” I said. “I can help you with that.”

She led me through a narrow, modern hallway painted in scarlet red. The Arrowsmiths lived in an up-and-coming, trendy Southie neighborhood. Their house resembled an actual home from the outside—deliberately humble—but inside, it still reeked of wealth. With granite flooring, crown moldings, and all the other eye-popping things the Fitzpatricks were so fond of.

Tinder and Tree jumped on me in unison, tackling me to the floor, excited to have a playmate.

“Children, please calm down. I apologize.” Joelle wove a hand disapprovingly at them.

“The nanny is a middle-aged woman from France. She is not much of authority to them. But see, we really wanted them to be bilingual.”

Joelle clearly didn’t understand what I meant about the kids being sleep-trained. My eyes travelled to her designer shirt, which was not only stained, but also inside out.

“I suggest you drop the French lessons and hire someone young and fun to do daily activities with them. Take them to swimming lessons or do cartwheels at the park. Teach them how to ride a bike and a scooter. Do things that would build their confidence.”

These kids looked thirsty for attention, conversation, and exploration. A second language was the last thing they needed. I got up from the floor and headed to the kitchen with the twins and Joelle following me as though they were the guests.

“Maybe you can do all those things with them,” Joelle mused, quickly losing her reservations. It took her a full month to come to terms with the fact she needed my help. After all, I was her husband’s enemy’s wife. Now that she took the leap, she figured she’d squeeze the hell out of the arrangement.

“I can do three times a week. Do they go to school?” I asked.

“Yes, but only until noon. Andrew works nonstop, and I am on the panel of three different charities and on the county board of supervisors. Not to mention, Andrew just signed another book deal. There’ll be a grand tour…”

I eyed her in disbelief. She gave her hair a toss.

“Don’t look at me like that. Andrew wants to run for mayor.”

“I see.”

I didn’t see anything, other than how this couple had their priorities all wrong.

“What’s your rate, anyway?” she asked primly.

“Twenty-five per hour,” I answered. She tilted her head, taken aback.

“Really? So little?”

I smiled. “It’s not so little for me.”

Not that I did it for the money. In fact, I’d already decided I would donate every penny given to me by the Arrowsmiths. It felt morally wrong to spend Cillian’s enemy’s money.

“I take it you and your husband have separate accounts.”

Joelle scanned me in new eyes, her face lighting up.

“We do.”

It was technically true. Kill and I did have separate accounts. But that didn’t mean I didn’t have access to his money. Money I’d refused to spend. I still only used whatever I was paid every Friday by Little Genius, letting the astronomical amount of dollars Kill transferred pile up in my checking account, untouched.

“All right. Three times a week. Including full Saturdays. I have to catch up on admin work.” Joelle stretched her arm in my direction. I shook it.

“Half a Saturday. I visit my former grandmother-in-law on Saturdays.”

“Oh, that’s right.” She gave herself away. So she was the one who told Kill. “You got yourself a deal.”

Turning around to the twins, I exclaimed, “Guess what? We’re going to make letter-shaped cookies today! I brought all the ingredients. You ready?”

“Yes!” Tree pumped the air with his fist.

Tinder nodded, eyeing me shyly. He was obviously more reserved than his brother. I herded the boys to the bathroom to wash our hands, rubbing between their fingers as we made funny hygiene songs that included a lot of fart jokes. Meanwhile, Joelle set up her laptop in the kitchen so she could see us. I appreciated that, if nothing else, she was concerned enough to keep an eye on us.

I set bowls with flour and sugar on the kitchen counter and dragged two chairs for the boys to stand on. We cracked eggs, added oil and water, then battered, sang, and whistled as we worked.

Every now and again, I’d catch Joelle watching us with longing mixed with envy and fascination.

Andrew wasn’t at home. I had the feeling he rarely was, which made spying on him a little harder.

We poured the batter into letter-shaped cutters. While we waited for the oven to heat, I emptied a mixed bag of colorful sprinkles into a bowl and asked the boys to separate the colors. It was a great exercise in patience, self-soothing, and teamwork.

“Don’t forget to save me all the reds,” I sing-songed. “Red is my favorite color.”

The color of pomegranate.

“I love blue.” Tree exploded into giggles. “Like Sully from Monsters, Inc.”

“And I love pink,” Tinder said. “Like flamingos.”

“Pink is for girls.” Tree blew a raspberry. “Tinder likes Elsa, too.” The boy stubbed a pudgy finger at his brother’s chest, leaving a cloud of flour on his shirt.

“So do I.” I high-fived Tinder. “Isn’t she cool? She has awesome superpowers.”

“Catboy from PJ Masks is cooler,” Tree said defensively, pitching the idea to me. “He is as fast as lightning and can hear anything. Even ants!”

“B-But can he freeze someone?” Tinder grinned, gaining confidence with me by his side.

The differences between Tree and Tinder were staggering.

Tree was talkative, animated, and naturally curious. Tinder stuttered, and his left eye twitched frequently. His jerky movements and low-hanging head told me he was extremely insecure. He also chewed on the collar of his shirt until a pool of saliva formed around it.

“Moooooom.” Tree narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Tinder ruined his shirt.”

“Jesus Christ, Tin, again? You’re really something, aren’t you.” Joelle darted from the table, advancing toward us.

She grabbed Tinder by the shoulder. I put my hand on hers, stopping her.

“Please don’t,” I said. “It’s totally natural. I have a few kids in class who do it, too.”

“He goes through dozens of shirts a week!” she burst, her lower lip trembling.

“Let him,” I whispered under my breath. “If it’s his way of coping with stress, making a fuss would only escalate the issue.”

We held each other’s gazes for a second. Luckily, the oven dinged, signaling it had reached our desired temperature.

“Excuse me.” I grabbed the trays.

I sent the children to wash their hands again, asking them to sing the songs we’d made up together from the top of their lungs while I tidied up the kitchen. That gave Joelle and me a few minutes alone.

“Joelle,” I started cautiously. I didn’t know how much time I was going to have with this family, but I knew they needed me. “Tinder is—”

“I know,” she cut me off, fidgeting with her necklace. “His therapist said it is too early for an official diagnosis. We are monitoring him closely, but I feel completely in the dark as to what his condition entails.”

“Criticizing him won’t help.” I put my hand on her arm. “Every child is different in personality, progress, and needs. French is the very last thing these kids need. Tinder, especially, needs a lot of love, and affection, and attention. He needs to know you love him unconditionally. If you’re confused, think about what he is going through. He is starting to realize he is different.”

Her shoulders sagged with a deep sigh. By the exhausted look on her face, I could tell she’d been wanting to talk about this with someone for a long time.

“I’m at a loss. My family produced happy-go-lucky kids. We don’t have a history of anything outside the norm. Tree reminds me so much of my brothers and me when we were little. Independent and athletic. While Tinder is—”

“Other great things. And not even a pinch less treasured than his brother,” I completed for her curtly. “Different kids require different sets of rules and techniques. You were blessed with two healthy children. That’s more than so many women dare to dream of.”

Me, for example.

I hadn’t told Kill but getting my period despite having unprotected sex with him for a couple of months unraveled me from the inside.

It shouldn’t have. Two months meant nothing in the grand scheme of things.

I read somewhere that it takes between eight to eleven months for the average couple to get pregnant if they actively try. But other couples weren’t on a deadline. I knew if I failed to give him heirs, Cillian would get them elsewhere.

The thought made me want to throw up.

“You’re right.” Joelle straightened her spine. “You’re so right. I need to stop this self-pity. Tinder’s a great kid, you know? A little behind on the letters and numbers, but he can paint like nobody’s business. And he is so imaginative!”

The light in her eyes was back, and that was when I realized I’d never seen it on in the first place.

“Tell you what. I’m about to read them a few stories while the cookies bake. Why don’t you stick around? Spend some time with us?”

“You think it’s a good idea?” She seemed uncertain. “They don’t seem to like me all that much.”

“You’re their mother.” I snorted. “They’re bound to adore you unconditionally.”

“I come from a family where parenting is done by others. I’m not very good with kids,” Joelle admitted hoarsely.

“You’re better than you think you are,” I assured her.

“How do you know?”

“Because you made them.”

We spent the rest of the afternoon together. By the time I got out of the Arrowsmiths’ house, I knew I was in deep trouble.

As much as I hated Andrew Arrowsmith for what he did—and was still doing—to my husband, I couldn’t help but like his family.

Ultimately, I was going to hurt them.

For now, I tried to heal them.