Page 105 of Ruthless Claim

“I said drop it.”

“Fuck you.” I hiss, fury and betrayal coursing through me. Cillian’s pupils dilate in surprise. “Fuck you, Cillian. You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to tell me you love me then shut the door in my face and tell me to drop it. You do not get to do that.”

His face is hard. “You’re upset⁠—”

Oh my fucking god, he doesn’t get it. “Of course I’m upset! I’m fucking pregnant I’m watching my husband disappear. I’m making up reasons why in my head because you won’t give me the real one.” I’m crying now and I can’t stop it.

I’ve been holding it for long enough and it’s coming out now whether I want it to or not. “Every single story I’ve come up with is worse than whatever the truth is. Do you understand that? The things I’ve been thinking⁠—”

“Valentina, stop⁠—”

“No! You stop!” I swipe at my face with the back of my hand. “You want to protect me? This is not protection. This is you deciding what I can handle and making the decision without me and calling it something good. That is not what protecting someone looks like. That is just—that’s just control, Cillian. That’s something Connor would fucking do.”

He jerks back as if I’ve shot him. His jaw goes tight and his eyes go dark, and for a second I think I’ve finally gotten somewhere, the wall is going to crack⁠—

“Get some sleep,” he says flatly. “You’re tired and you’re not thinking straight.”

My mouth falls open. I can’t—I actually cannot believe⁠—

“What did you say?” I hiss at him.

He winces, realizing his error. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Get out,” I tell him, a faint buzzing in my ears. “Get out of this fucking bedroom right now.”

He frowns. “Valentina⁠—”

“I mean it.” My voice is shaking and I don’t care. “I cannot look at you right now. Go.”

He looks at me for a long moment. Something works in his throat but then he walks out. A few moments later, I hear the study door close quietly behind him. I wish it was a slam. A slam would mean he lost control.

I stand in the middle of the bedroom and I breathe.

In. Out. In. Out.

My hand is on my stomach. I don’t know when I put it there.

I sit on the edge of the bed, pressing both hands over my face. I think about the look on his face right before he shut down. That second where I could see it—the fear, real and specific, something he’s carrying that is not about me and is affecting me and that he will not, under any circumstances, share.

I don’t understand it. I want to understand it. I want to go knock on that study door and make him look at me and tell me the truth.

I don’t move. Faintly, I can hear the sound of the light in the study switching on.

I lie back. My stomach rolls, the nausea doing what it always does when I’m stressed: sitting heavy and persistent at the base of my throat.

I put my hand back on my stomach and I stare at the ceiling.

My mind races, thinking about his voice in the dark saying you’re my whole world now and how much I want that to still be true. The fear on his face before he closed it down.

I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what he’s carrying or why he won’t show me or what’s on the other side of that study door right now.

I don’t know if he’s protecting me or shutting me out or if those two things have just become the same thing for him and he can’t see the difference.

What I know is this: the light under the door stays on for a very long time.

I’m still awake when it goes out.

11