Page 32 of Sinful Bride

I hire the staff I need—a housekeeper named Bonnie who comes daily now instead of weekly, additional housekeeping staff to supplement her when needed, a cook who trained in Milan and knows how to prepare the kind of meals I grew up eating, and a house manager who coordinates everything. Declan signs off on the expenses without comment or even looking at me. He just scrawls his signature across the bottom of the invoices and goes back to whatever he was doing before I interrupted him.

He's busy with his organization and his territory. His men. His world that I'm not part of, that took Lachlan's empire and handed it to an outsider who doesn't know the first thing about tradition or honor or the way things are supposed to be done.

Good. I don't want to be part of it anyway.

But I can't help noticing small things that make my blood simmer with irritation. Like the way he conducts business meetings in the living room instead of his office more often than not, spreading papers across the coffee table like he's still running a motorcycle club out of a garage. His men don't seem to mind—they sprawl across the furniture in their leather jackets and boots, drinking beer from bottles instead of glasses, laughing too loud and tracking dirt across the Persian rug. But I mind. It's unprofessional and crude. A reminder that he doesn't belong in this house or this life or this world. He certainly doesn’t deserve me.

I mention it one evening when his men have left, and he's pouring himself a whiskey at the bar cart. The good whiskey, the Macallan 25 that my father gave us as a wedding gift. He doesn't even appreciate it, so far as I can tell, just pours it like it's cheap bourbon.

"You have an office," I say from the doorway, keeping my voice as calm as I can manage. "With a desk. And proper seating. You might consider using it for business meetings instead of treating our living room like a clubhouse."

He doesn't even look up as he keeps pouring, the amber liquid catching the light. "The living room works fine."

"It's inappropriate."

"For who?" Now he does look at me, and there's something sharp in his green eyes. "For you? Because it offends your delicate sensibilities?"

"For anyone with standards." I keep my voice cool even though my heart is pounding. "But I suppose that's the difference between us. You're used to conducting business in dive bars and back alleys. I'm used to actual professionalism."

His jaw tightens. The muscle there jumps, and I watch it with a strange fascination. Watch the way his hand grips the glass a little tighter. "Careful, Elena."

"Careful of what? The truth?" I turn to leave, then pause. "Oh, and your men left rings from their beer bottles on the table. You might want to use coasters next time. If you know what those are."

I don't wait for his response. I walk away with my head high and my heart pounding, feeling both triumphant and slightly sick. Like I've won something, but I'm not sure what.

He hasn’t slept in the master bedroom since he brought me to the penthouse the morning after we wed. I think he was trying to make some gesture by giving me the main suite and sleeping separately, and a small part of me wants to appreciate it. That maybe there is some gentlemanly nature behind the beast.

But more likely, he just doesn’t want to be near me any more than I want to be near him.

I go to bed, and try not to think about him lying in a guest bed down the hall, what he might be wearing—or not—or what he might do in that bed thinking of his wife. He’s home every night, so I don’t think there’s another woman. But he hasn’t tried to touch me again.

When I fall asleep, it’s restless. And when I wake up in the morning and come downstairs after showering and dressing for the day, I find him in the kitchen making breakfast. God knows where he sent the cook off to. He's shirtless, wearing only jeans that hang low on his hips, and there's something so casually domestic about the scene that it makes my chest tight.

And that’s not the only thing. I can see all those muscles that I tried not to theorize about the other morning. Broad, cut shoulders, a defined chest, abs that aren’t the perfect cobblestones of someone who curates their body in a gym, but the sharply defined abdomen of a man who works hard. Tattoos are inked all over his arms and chest and sides, and two deep cuts of muscle frame his navel and the dusted copper hair beneath, leaving a tantalizing path into those low-slung jeans.

My mouth feels dry. I try to look at what he’s cooking—eggs, I think. Scrambled, from the look of it. The smell fills the kitchen, along with butter and pepper. It smells homey, even though this has never been my home and never will be.

"Giuseppe can make breakfast," I say, pouring myself coffee with hands that aren't quite steady. "That's what we pay him for. And for God’s sake, put on a shirt. It’s inappropriate.”

Declan snorts. “In my own house? And I like cooking." He doesn't turn around, just keeps stirring the eggs with a wooden spoon. "Always have."

"How quaint." I lean against the counter, watching him. His back is broad and muscled, covered in tattoos that I've only glimpsed before. Celtic knots and symbols I don't recognize, and a phrase in what looks like Irish Gaelic along his spine. "I suppose that's a skill you picked up in your motorcycle club days. Cooking for yourself because you couldn't afford staff."

Now he does turn, spatula in hand. His expression is carefully blank, like he's working very hard to keep his face neutral. "Something like that."

"It must be difficult," I continue, knowing I should stop, but unable to. The words keep coming like I can’t do anything but keep digging at this man, making this as painful for him as it is for me to be here. "Adjusting to this lifestyle. Having people to do things for you. Not having to scramble for every meal or worry about whether you can afford to keep the lights on."

"Elena." His voice is quiet, suddenly. My senses spark with the awareness of sudden danger. "What exactly are you trying to accomplish here?"

I raise my chin. "I'm simply making an observation."

"You're trying to remind me I'm not good enough for you." He sets the spatula down and braces his hands against the counter. "You're trying to make me feel small. Like I don't belong in this house or this life or this world. You've been doing it for days. Little comments. Little digs. Reminding me at every opportunity that I'm beneath you. That I'm not sophisticated enough or educated enough or good enough for a Capetti princess."

My throat tightens. "If you feel that way, perhaps it's because⁠—"

"Because what? Because it's true?" His jaw clenches. "Maybe it is. Maybe I am just some brute who doesn't know which fork to use or how to talk to your father's friends or why the fuck a coaster matters so much. But at least I'm honest about what I am."

"And what's that?"