Page 5 of Ruthless Claim

I set down my fork very carefully so I don’t throw it.

But I want to.

Oh, I want to so badly.

“I am at a funeral,” I say with poisonous sweetness. “My own. Thank you so much for noticing, it’s very touching that you’re paying attention.”

He looks at me for the first time since we sat down, and those ice-blue eyes are flat and assessing, like I’m a problem he’s trying to accurately measure. “If you’re going to be miserable, at least be miserable in a way that doesn’t embarrass both our families.”

“Embarrass—” I breathe before I stop and take a measured breath. “You have some nerve, Brennan.”

“I have plenty of nerve,” he agrees, looking back at his plate. “What I don’t have is patience for a sulking wife who can’t hold it together for one evening.”

The word sulking hits like a slap, and I feel my smile go sharp enough to cut glass. “Sulking,” I repeat, my voice going dangerously quiet. Those that know me know that’s a bad sign. He doesn’t know me well yet and that’s going to be his problem. “I am not sulking. I am performing at a level that deserves a standing ovation given the circumstances, and if you say the word sulking to me again I will⁠—”

“You’ll what?” He looks at me again, and there’s something mocking in his expression that makes my fingers twitch toward my knife. “Threaten me? Throw your drink at me? March over to your brother and tell him I wasn’t nice to you?” The corner of his mouth curves, but it’s not warm, not even slightly. “Go ahead. Be my guest. Let me know how that works out for you.”

I look at him for a long, steady moment. “You know,” I say conversationally, “I’ve met a lot of arrogant men in my life. Occupational hazard of being a Santoro. But you have a very specific brand of arrogance that is impressive in its scope. The confidence it takes to be this unpleasant to someone you’ve been married to for approximately four hours⁠—”

“Three and a half,” he says.

“Tre e mezzo,” I agree sweetly, enjoying that I can slip into Italian while the idiot barely knows English, “and already you’ve perfected the art of making me want to commit a crime.” I pick up my fork again. “Talent, really.”

He says nothing and goes back to his plate. He is done with this particular exchange, which is more infuriating than anything he could have said.

I look across the ballroom at Leo and Emma.

Leo has his arm around Emma’s shoulders and his dark head is bent toward hers, saying something that makes her laugh again.

A wave of jealousy hits me so hard that if I was standing, I would have been knocked down.

I want what that looks like.

I’ve always wanted what that looks like.

Not the circumstances that led to it because my idiot brother caused a lot of shit when he kidnapped Emma from her first wedding, but the thing underneath it.

The realness of it.

Two people who chose each other with their whole selves, who look at each other like that even in a room full of people.

Instead I have…this. A man who finds my existence offensive and hasn’t bothered to hide it.

The band starts a waltz and Cillian pushes back his chair, looking bored and a little irritated.

“Time to dance, wife.”

Amazing how much contempt he can put into the word wife. I’m sure there’s another four-letter word he would rather call me instead.

I take his hand and let him lead me to the floor.

I will not make a scene because there is the smallest, pettiest part of me that wants to show all these people that I am better at this than he is.

I’ve been in ballroom since I was six and I am exceptional. Whatever he’s capable of, I will match it and exceed it and I will look better doing it.

He pulls me into hold and I notice with immediate annoyance that his posture is perfect. Ugh.

His frame is solid and correct, lead hand in exactly the right place. He knows what he’s doing.