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Ranger did not have those kinds of codes. Because of the kind of man he was, sure, but also because I’d made it clear that cheating was a dealbreaker for me.
Once I’d firmly immersed myself in the Sons of Templar universe, I’d understood what manwhores they all were. How easy it was for each of them to get laid. There were always women around, clinging to the club, waiting for their moment.
I’d never thought less of those women; they were just doing what they could to get through their lives. Find adventure, whatever. Even the most calculating of them—I didn’t like them, that was sure—but there was no equation without a man’s involvement. It takes two to tango and all that.
Ranger had made his promises that he would never touch another woman. Those promises were made, of course, back when he couldn’t keep his hands off me. When we were gripped by the throat with our intense young love.
We hadn’t loved each other any less over the years since.
But our love had changed with the seasons. We had moments of that intensity. Weeks, months where we were both like horny teenagers. But there were other times that were quieter, when we used the bed to sleep only. To watch movies with our kids.
Pressures of life, the club.
The realities of marriage.
We were going through one of those seasons. A bare one. We had sex, but it wasn’t for passion, more out of routine, obligation. Even the worst sex between us was better than what a lot of people got in a lifetime. But still... It wasn’t anything like what a young woman with fake tits, blowjob lips and legs to her neck could offer.
I hadn’t been stupid enough to think Ranger wouldn’t ever be tempted, he was a man. But I had expected him to show restraint. Loyalty. Honor.
“It matters,” I said on a rough swallow. “Because more than once constitutes a habit. An affair. A continuing deception. Once is different. It’s no less despicable, but it’s different.” I sucked in a breath, preparing myself. “So how many times was it, Cody?”
He flinched.
I never called him Cody unless I was mad. Even then, I hadn’t been mad enough to hit him with the name of the boy who had died when he put on the Sons of Templar cut in years.
I was glad about that flinch. A small shred of evidence that I’d caused him pain. Sure, I wanted to cause him more. I wanted to step forward and kick him squarely in the balls that had tempted him to try to ruin our marriage.
But then again, if it wasn’t just his balls, if it had been his head—the one on his shoulders, that is—that had caused him to do this, then there wasn’t a marriage left to ruin.
Ranger eyed me, a hard stare. Was he considering lying? Was he measuring whether the truth would get him what he wanted?
“Once,” he gritted out.
“Do you care about her?” I asked, unable to stop.
“Care about her?” he scoffed. “Of course I don’t fucking care about her. She’s a hot body at the club. I was drunk off my ass. Fucked up in my head, and I kissed her. I don’t even remember her fucking name.”
“Ah, well that makes it so much better,” I muttered.
His hand curled around the edge of the kitchen counter, knuckles going white from the force he was holding onto it.
“Why didn’t you fuck her?” I asked. “If you were going to see what the inside of another woman’s mouth tasted like, why didn’t you stick your dick in her too?
I was being crass. Vulgar. Cruel. But I didn’t care. Couldn’t care.
“Because I couldn’t,” Ranger bit out. “I could barely stomach kissing her. Hated every second of it, hated myself for doing it. Because touching any woman that isn’t you is a fucking betrayal of everything I am.”
The words would’ve been nice if he wasn’t saying them with the same mouth he’d cheated on me with tonight.
“Why did you do it then?” I asked.
“I’m trying to get rid of you!” he exploded, his roar echoing over the corners of my brain. We’d fought plenty in our marriage, but he’d always spoken in aggressive, sharp and quiet tones. He’d never raised his voice.
Which is why I was struck dumb.
Plus, it wasn’t the volume in which he said the words, it was the words themselves.
Ranger started pacing.
He never did that either. The man had always been annoyingly free of most nervous tics.
“Fuck, Lizzie, the club...” he trailed off. Stopped pacing. Stared at me.
I’d been married to this man for years. Known him for longer. I was an expert in Cody, an expert in Ranger. I knew every movement on his face, every expression.
But this man standing in front of me was a stranger.
