Page 100 of Ruthless Claim

“About fifteen minutes ago.” He stands up and stretches his neck to one side. “You fell asleep out here.”

I sit up, wincing at the discomfort in my lower back. That’s going to fucking hurt and I make a mental note to see my chiropractor. “What were you handling?”

There’s a pause. “Business,” he says evasively. “Come to bed.”

No, he’s not telling me something. “Cillian⁠—”

“Valentina,” he says firmly and not unkind. “Come to bed.”

I come to bed.

I lie on my side facing the window and I listen to the sounds of him getting undressed.

The rustle of his shirt and jacket as he takes them off, the metallic clinking of his belt as he unbuckles it.

The mattress dips as he gets into bed.

He doesn’t reach for me, and my throat tightens.

He always reaches for me. Every night for weeks it’s been the last thing he does before he goes to sleep.

His arm will either come around me or his hand will find mine.

There’s always some point of contact, something that says: here, still here.

I’ve gotten so used to it that I stopped noticing it happening and now I notice it not happening.

I lie there very still on my side of the bed, and I feel the space between us. It feels enormous.

I can tell from his breathing that he’s not asleep.

He can probably tell from mine that I’m not either.

Neither of us says anything.

The city that never sleeps is doing its thing while I lie in bed, and all I can think about is the expression on his face when he thought I was still asleep.

The worn-out wrecked look of a man sitting alone at midnight watching his pregnant wife sleep and carrying something he’s decided she can’t know about.

I don’t know if that should make me feel better or worse.

I think it makes me feel worse.

Emma is already at the corner table when I push through the door, and I see Seraphina before I see my best friend.

The baby is in the stroller, awake, which still surprises me every time I see her. Not too long ago, she did nothing but sleep and eat and shit. Now she’s got her eyes open, tracking the window light, her dark hair sticking up in every direction like she’s been electrocuted.

I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips.

My poor baby niece—she has her father’s hair.

The exact same thick unruly dark chaos that my brother has never successfully tamed in his entire life.

She looks like a troll doll, but it’s also the most beautiful hair I have ever seen. I would set myself on fire for this child.

Seraphina’s mouth scrunches and her forehead creases, which means she’s building up to a decision about whether to fuss. Emma’s hand moves to the stroller handle, and I can see her mouth soothing things to the baby.

My friend notices my presence and looks up to greet me. But there must be something on my face because her eyes narrow and she tips her head slightly to the right. I fight the urge to shift uncomfortably.