Page 6 of A Sinful Gravity

I despised the uncontrolled. No secret there. Lesson one from age ten.

Back in Mom's cramped apartment, I'd watch her cry at Dad's back, debase herself for a glance. He left anyway, dumped her there.

At seventeen, she ended her life of endless waiting and fantasies.

Back with Dad's family, "bastard" stamped on me, I learned emotions were cracks, and dependence was weakness. Never expose that.

So I climbed, using marriage to seize company control.

My thing with Luna? A straight-up transaction from day one. I was the sharp buyer; she, the perfect asset. I told myself to stick to the script—provide the goods, keep up appearances—we'd both stay dignified.

I resented the marriage. But on our wedding day, Luna in white, blonde hair up, graceful swan neck, calm expression, it settled something in me.

First time I really looked. Her smile hit me, stirred some unnamed feeling.

Later, I saw her "calm" hid depths she guarded—soup on the stove, plants on the balcony, a hot bowl waiting silently when I dragged in late.

It bugged me.

Not because she screwed up—opposite. She nailed it, stirred something close to need.

Home felt easy. Her soup satisfied. Kitchen noises from the study distracted me, pulled my thoughts.

Worst, we clicked in bed. Her hazy eyes, bitten lip when desperate. I wanted to slam into her, own her. Even watching her stir soup, those slim arms, I'd get hard, impulse to pin her on the table.

These out-of-control feelings pissed me off, made me pull back with coldness to reclaim the reins. Stay late at work, bury myself in tasks to block emotional glitches.

Last night, Sloane leaned in, asking if I was troubled. I didn't shove her away. Childish thought: if another woman soothed me, it'd prove Luna meant nothing.

Proved I'm an asshole and a fool.

Picturing her alone last night, watching the clock tick, my heart clenched like an invisible fist, stealing my breath.

Washington morning traffic was light. Rounding the last corner, I spotted our house lights on from afar.

I got out, time stretching as I approached. My hand trembled on the knob, paused, then pushed.

Dead silence hit me inside.

Luna sat on the living room sofa, dark circles under her eyes, back ramrod straight. Still in that pricey blue silk dress, gleaming cold in the morning light. She looked tiny, curled among velvet cushions, like a kid the world forgot.

"Luna."

No turn, not even a flutter of lashes. That silence shredded me worse than screams.

I walked over, each step leaden.

When she finally looked, her eyes chilled me. Not forgiving calm, but rage burned to indifference, absolute.

"Last night..." My voice rasped.

"If you're here for clothes, help yourself." Her words floated like smoke, sharp as blades. "Cassian, you betrayed me."

Damn, that wild panic snapped my last thread of reason. I lunged forward, bent down, ignored her fight, scooped her off the sofa, and pinned her hard between my chest and the backrest.

"Let go!" Emotion finally cracked her. She shoved my shoulders.

"No." I dipped my head, forced eye contact. Her heartbeat hammered, fast enough to break mine. "Listen, Luna. Last night was a clusterfuck mistake. I was drunk, and Sloane mistook me for her ex. I swear, nothing happened beyond these disgusting marks."