Page 103 of Ruthless Claim

I hear him drop his keys on the entryway table. His footsteps down the hall.

The bedroom door opens.

The first thing I notice is how terrible he looks.

There are shadows under his eyes that weren’t that dark this morning, and his jaw is carrying three days of stubble because he hasn’t been shaving properly.

His mouth is pressed into the flat hard line he has when he’s somewhere in his head that he’s locked everyone out of.

He looks like a man who has been grinding himself down against something for days and isn’t anywhere near done.

He sees me sitting up and his eyes tighten. “Hey.”

“Hey.” I keep my voice even. “You eat?”

“I’m fine.” He shrugs his jacket off and hangs it up in the closet. He knows. I can see that he knows this is coming. There’s a bracing in his shoulders, a set to his jaw that’s different from tired. He’s been waiting for this the same way I’ve been waiting to have it. “You should be asleep.”

I shut my book. “I’m not tired.”

“You look tired⁠—”

“What’s going on?” I ask impatiently, interrupting him.

He stills. His back is still to me.

One beat passes, then two.

Then he turns around and he looks at me.

The expression on his face is blank.

It’s the version he used in the very first weeks of our marriage when we hated each other. My stomach drops at how familiar it is, at how much I hate seeing it directed at me again.

“Nothing’s going on,” he says. “It’s work.”

“Don’t lie to me,” I say sharply, feeling anger wash over me. How can he sit there and lie to me like this?

His eyes flash. “It’s work, Valentina.”

“I said don’t lie to me.” I get off the bed, planting my feet into the ground. “Don’t tell me it’s work. Don’t tell me it’s Connor. Don’t give me the version you’ve decided I’m allowed to have.” My voice is steady and I’m quite proud of myself. I’m doing well. “You’ve been lying to me for days and I need you to stop.”

His jaw tightens. “I haven’t lied to you,” he bites out.

“You’re not telling me the truth. That’s the same fucking thing.”

Something flickers in his face at the language.

Good. I want him off balance.

I want him to understand that I am not calm about this, that the steadiness in my voice is something I’m choosing.

“There’s nothing to tell,” he says finally. “I’m handling something. It doesn’t concern you.”

The words hit me like a slap. “It—it doesn’t concern me?” I stare at him in disbelief and he looks back at me, almost arrogantly. “I’m your wife. I’m carrying your child. How does anything you’re doing not concern me?”

“Because I said so.” His voice has an edge now too, something fraying underneath the control. “I’m handling it and you need to let me handle it. That’s the end of the conversation.” He turns to take off his shirt, clearly dismissing me. I see red.

“Like hell it is,” I hiss, my heart thumping. How dare he be the one to end this conversation? We are not done.