The second he’s gone, Bronx chuckles.
“Stubbed your toe, huh?” He brushes sweat-damp hair off my forehead, thumb tracing the bite mark he left on my neck. “Guess I’ll have to be more careful next time.”
His eyes darken.
“Or maybe not.”
I swat his ass and shove him off me so his cock slides out. “I don’t want my brother to know what we get up to.”
Bronx grabs the towel from the floor, takes my hand and pulls me off the bed. “Why? Will he call the cops and tell them your husband makes you happy?”
“Who said I’m happy?”
“The noises you just made tell me you were very fucking happy, princess.”
He leads me into the bathroom, turns on the shower, and drags me in with him. While he washes himself, I do the same, and somehow it feelsnormal.
Bronx steps out first and rough-dries his hair with a fresh towel. “I’ll start making dinner. Take your time, princess.”
When he leaves, I press my forehead to the shower screen and exhale. I never expected this marriage to become something I enjoyed…something I wanted to be a part of.
After I’ve dried off and redressed, I head for the kitchen to help with dinner. On my way there, I hear a hushed voice coming from the sitting room.
“I know what I owe… I’m handling it.” Connor mutters. “Give me more time.”
As soon as he sees me, he hangs up.
“Who was that?” I ask.
“Nobody. Just... university stuff.” Connor slides his phone into his jeans pocket. “What’s for dinner?”
He’s acting weird. Edgy.
“You know we’ll cover your uni fees, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” I study his ruffled hair and tight expression for a beat. “Come with me and we’ll find out what Bronx is making.”
Connor follows behind, and when I reach the kitchen, Bronx is at the stove wearing a black T-shirt and sweatpants. His forehead is creased, and he’s staring at his phone screen as he types.
“What can I help with?” I join his side and notice the exact second he shuts off whatever was looking at and pockets his phone.
“Grab some forks,” he mutters, distant.
I set out the cutlery on the island, then the pasta bowls, a bottle of extra virgin olive oil, and hand Connor the red wine to uncork.
“Wow,” Connor smirks. “When did you get so domesticated?”
I flip him the bird. “Unless you wanna wear your dinner, I suggest you button it.”
“No, seriously, Tier,” he says, popping the cork. “I used to think the only reason you hooked up with Damien was so he’d feed you.”
“If you want to keep your tongue in your face, don’t mention that name in this home,” Bronx says, his voice like black silk.
A shiver runs through me.
“My bad,” Connor makes a face. “Ex’s and baggage. I get it. Sorry, Bronx.”
