Page 13 of Ruthless Claim

She’s got her phone in her hand and her eyes fixed on it, studiously ignoring me.

I let the silence run.

One beat.

Two.

I open the top dresser drawer and take my time finding what I need. The apartment is warm and there’s no particular hurry to get dressed.

If she wants to pretend I’m not here, I’m happy to make that as difficult as possible for her.

As I pull out a pair of sleep pants, she looks up and her eyes go wide for about half a second before she pulls the aristocratic disdain back over her face.

I’m somewhat impressed.

Valentina Santoro has excellent control.

The moments where it slips are worth noting.

“Do you always walk around half-naked?” she asks coolly.

I shrug. “It’s my bedroom. I’ll walk around however I want,” I tell her.

“Our bedroom, apparently,” she corrects, with the particular acid sweetness she deploys when she wants to be right and annoying simultaneously. “And if you could at least pretend to have some modesty⁠—”

A smirk crosses my lips, which I know will infuriate her. “I’ve been told I have nothing to be modest about.”

Her face flushes and she looks away sharply toward the window, very suddenly fascinated by the Manhattan skyline. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re a prude,” I shoot back as I turn around and drop my towel. I don’t bother to go back to the bathroom, because this is my bedroom too and if she wants to play territorial games then territory works both ways.

I hear her make a strangled sound behind me, but she tries to cover it and I still don’t turn around. I take my time.

I can feel how much she’s trying to not look at my naked ass, which is honestly the most entertained I’ve been since the open bar, and the open bar had good whiskey.

When I finally turn around, she is examining her fingernails with minute attention.

“You can look,” I say with amusement. “I won’t tell.”

Her head comes up sharply, dark eyes flaring with outrage. “I’d rather gouge my eyes out,” she hisses.

“Suit yourself.” I pull back the covers on my side of the bed. My side is always closest to the door and I lie down, looking at the ceiling. “Just so we’re clear on the rules,” I say. “You stay on your side. I stay on mine. No touching. No talking. And definitely no cuddling.”

“I wouldn’t cuddle you,” she says, with a vehemence that I find disproportionate, “if you were the last man on earth.”

“The feeling is mutual, Mrs. Brennan.”

She does not like hearing me call her Mrs. Brennan.

Her jaw tightens and there’s a fraction more height in her already rigid spine, a flash of something hot in her eyes before the control comes back down. I fight a triumphant smirk.

She can mull on Mrs. Brennan the same way I’ve been mulling with you’re marrying a Santoro.

Adjustment is a process.

I’m just helping her along.

She slides under the covers and positions herself so close to the side of the mattress that one bad dream puts her on the floor.