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“This is all really strange, isn’t it? Me here with all of you?”
“Not so strange,” he says. “You fit.”
“You think so?” That comes out strained, my lungs and voice box and pounding heart betraying me with complete confusion.
Wells ignited a blaze inside me, a desperation that hadn’t been there before. He’s the one I crave romantic overtures and assurance from, and yet Liam’s the one bestowing it—the assurance anyway.
“I know so, Ivy.”
“Where do I fit? Because I’m finding everything confusing. I wish he …” My eyes flit toward the hallway, where Wells’s door can be seen. The sight makes me both hungry and nauseous, and I feel my heart bleeding out right here on this couch. “I mean, I wish things were clear.”
Liam studies me for a beat, his lips curling into a pensive frown as he moves his laptop onto the coffee table, like there’s nothing that could pull him away. “What things?”
“Things like …” My voice shakes. “The specifics don’t matter.” I wave my hand with an unconvincing flop. “Where do I fit exactly?” I press. I’m not sure what I’m looking for—maybe that Liam can decode Wells’s mixed signals.
He drops his forehead against mine with a heavy sigh that smells of foresty spice and smoke and beer. The nicotine musk is still not a favorite scent, but because it’s Liam’s, I don’t detest it anymore. When he finally leans back, there’s a contemplative divot between his eyes. “As much as I wish this answer could be different, you fit with him.” He kicks his chin toward Wells’s bedroom.
My heart leaps. I want that to be true, but I don’t believe it. “He doesn’t seem to share that opinion. We may be married, and he’s been really good to me, but he doesn’t want me. He’s made that clear.”
“Then, he’s full of shit. You’ll have to trust me on this one. You’re his, in every sense, even if he isn’t saying it.” He tucks a stray piece of my hair behind my ear. “And like I said, I wish, more than anything, that I could answer you differently, change the past or the rules, whatever, but—”
Wells swings his door open with a whoosh and swaggers out. Hair wet, gray joggers resting low on his hips—showcasing both his V and his flaccid, bulging cock below it—shirtless, ladderedeight-pack abs on full display. Dreamy, as always, with his divinely sculpted golden-bronze physique.
SweetbabyJesus.
His eyes land on us, detonating like an atomic bomb for a split second before flattening. Yummy but expressionless.
Guilt pangs my sternum. Although I have no idea why. We aren’t real, and no matter how many moments we’ve had, Liam exhibited more interest with that brief admission than Wells has lately. If I want to decimate Liam’s resolve and explore that attraction, why shouldn’t I? Maybe because it wouldn’t be fair to Liam. I’m married to one of his best friends, and despite this being an arrangement for my inheritance, I’ve never desired anyone more than Wells. We never said we’d adhere to any faithful rule, but pursuing something that could sever the possibility of Wells someday being mine isn’t a risk I can handle.
Liam watches me as Wells breezes past us without a word, the air growing thick. I feel his attention on me, but I can’t take mine off the gorgeous, half-naked man in the kitchen. Or the tattoo on his spine—a sword with an intricate handle, the blade piercing a stone.
The Sword in the Stone.
He’s absolutely captivating. My whole being is held hostage by this magnetic pull he has over me. It’s pathetic really—the way my eyes glue to every stretch and pull and flex of his muscles. Every twitch of his rosebud-pink lips and crinkle around his emerald eyes. The way his hair is damp and mussed yet still somehow impeccably styled. I should just let my jaw drop to the floor in a pool of my drool. My ogling is mortifying—far worse than my typical drifting.
Wells busies himself, filling a water bottle and sauntering back past us without sparing us a glance. He’s almost at his bedroom door when his chilling rasp shatters the stale air without him turning around. “Liam, I love you like a brother, but if you value your life, you’d be wise to keep your fucking hands off my wife.”
What in the ever-loving hell? Is he jealous?
He slams his door with a force that rattles the windows, and my head whips toward Liam, who’s laughing.
“Told ya,” he says.
“What was that? And why do I feel guilty and pissed and baffled as to why you didn’t move if you knew he’d react that way?”
His lips twitch, attempting to snuff out the last drops of his humor until they spread into a wily grin. “Never back down, or it’s an admission of guilt. He’d already seen us. My only argument was to willingly hold my position, own it and whatever else came from it. Anything else is cowardly. I really do wish I could claim you. You’re a … rare gift. But the truth—a truth your eyes just screamed—is that you don’t belong to me. There are only three people in this world I won’t steal from. Four now, I suppose. And you belong to one of them.” He stands, folding his laptop under his arm, and plants a chaste kiss in my hair. “Good night, Ivy. Go get what’s yours.”
After Liam disappears up the grand stairway, my guilt diminishes, and my fury spikes. I rush to open Wells’s door without a knock, slamming it behind me like he did moments ago. His bedroom is both stark and luxurious, draped in satiny blacks and grays and creams, but I can’t focus on his decor now. He’s in his leather chair, heated eyes boring into me.
“What the hell was that?” I shout.
“Are younotmy wife, Ivanna?”
“You know that’s beside the point. Since when am I your wifelike that? If I remember correctly, you weren’t interested in fucking me!” The realization of those words strikes me at my core, my broken heart gaining purchase. His rejection has crippled me more than I realized. My stomach flips, hands shaking. But the thought of how I would react if I glimpsed Wells with his hand in Celeste’s hair is sobering. It wouldn’t be pretty. “I’m sure that was uncomfortable because it was Liam. Nothing was happening. Look, we’ve got five years of this, so we need some rules.”
His face is so drawn, so tight. He’s never looked this irate in front of me. He jumps up from his desk chair, pacing with unsteadybreaths. “Rules. Fine. They”—he circles his index finger to the rest of the house—“are off-limits.”
My heart crumbles a little more when I realize this is more about some pissing contest with his crew than about me. He doesn’t want me. He just doesn’t want any of them to feast on me. That surge of hope from what appeared to be jealousy fizzles.
