The Villain

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.

Three months had passed since Persephone moved in.

Three months of irritating daily dinners, text messages full of pointless cloud pictures, and an unholy amount of sex.

Physically, I’d never been this satisfied in my life. Mentally, my disposition and ideologies shriveled into themselves and shut the windows every time I stepped into my house.

If Flower Girl thought we were making progress on our way to marital bliss, she had another thing coming.

I wasn’t an inch more in love with her than I was three months ago and didn’t care for her an ounce more than I had the day she burst into my office, asking me to be her knight in shiny loafers.

Yet.

Yet.

My new lifestyle had a price, and I was not happy to pay it.

I cracked my knuckles behind closed doors so frequently I was surprised my fingers were still attached to my hands, and I spent double the time at the gym taking my energy out on a punching bag to blow off steam.

It didn’t help matters that Sailor was sporting an impressive belly.

She’d stuck it out every weekend when we’d all gathered at my parents’ house, patting it to make sure no one forgot she was with child. My parents’ initial euphoria with my nuptials had died down, and they were back to cooing and fawning over Sailor’s stomach.

I needed an heir and fast. My sole motivation was to lead the Fitzpatrick clan and sire someone who would do the same. I didn’t want to see Hunter’s spawn hijacking my hard-earned company and with their DNA, pissing it away on flashy cars, drugs, booze, and a spaceship full of sorority sisters.

Having said that, each month my wife informed me that she had gotten her period, I found myself content.

A baby did not fit into my world.

Not yet, anyway.

I needed to get rid of the Andrew Arrowsmith problem, make sure Royal Pipelines was lawsuit-free, and ensure the exploratory drillings in the Arctic were fruitful.

Besides, knocking Flower Girl up meant I no longer had an excuse to keep her around, and having a steady lay turned out to be convenient. So much so, that I was toying with the idea of taking a local side piece after this was all done and dealt with.

Not too local, but local enough to be on the same continent as me. Someone I could stash close enough for comfort and too far away for dinner dates.

There were other merits to getting rid of Persephone, of course.

Namely, the fact that sometimes (although not very often, and in a completely manageable way) she made me feel like I was falling through an endless abyss full of glass ceilings.

Next time I chose a mistress, I’d do my due diligence. Get Sam on the case. Find someone less attractive than my wife, and not half as stubborn. Chances were, I’d never have to deal with the discomfort of wanting someone physically so much again, simply because Persephone had always stirred in me what no other woman had.

Now, I played the memory of last night in my head while I entertained my friends during our weekly poker night.

Of my wife in her lacy white nightgown. How we met halfway in the hallway as we often did. I was coming to see her, and she was coming to see me, neither of us in the mood for that tug-of-war, who-caves-first game.

We exploded on the carpet, fabric ripping, teeth nipping, moans drifting downstairs to the staff quarters.

“My favorite wish,” she had rasped into my mouth when I came deep inside her. “My miracle.”

“Is that a smile on Cillian’s face?” Hunter scratched his head, dumbfounded.

It had only been forty minutes since they’d arrived, and already I wanted to kick them out with my shoes still deep in their ass cracks. Flower Girl was upstairs, having a Zoom conference call with her friends, and my mind was deep in the gutter as to what I had planned for her tonight.

“A smile? Surely not.” Devon squinted at his cards, taking a sip of his brandy. “Perhaps he is having a stroke.”