Page 142 of Ruthless Claim

The boy isn’t blind. He can see him. We can all see him.

Cillian stands. “Hey, Finn.”

Finn gives him a small, shy wave. “Hi.”

They sit with Claire on one side of Finn, the empty chair on his other side. I am across the room on my own and I look at the door again. Get through the next hour. Just the next hour.

“This is such a nice facility,” Claire says, to the room, with the brightness of someone determined to make small talk happen despite all available evidence suggesting she shouldn’t. She’s looking around at the décor with wonder. “Very clean. Very—calming.”

I don’t bother responding because this is the last place I would ever consider calming. I am in a DNA testing clinic, and the fact that they’ve done a nice job with the soft furnishings is not something I have the bandwidth to appreciate right now.

“Have you been here before?” Claire asks me.

I can’t help myself. I shoot her a glare. Why the fuck would I ever be at a clinic for DNA tests? Is she an idiot? Does she think I make a habit of this? Does she imagine this is somewhere I pop in on a regular basis? Does she think I have some type of loyalty card with this place and can get her a goddamn discount?

How fucking insulting. It makes my blood boil.

“No,” I say sweetly. “I can’t imagine many reasons I’d have been.” I pause, deciding to be a bit bitchy. “You seem very comfortable here. I suppose that’s what happens when paternity’s more of a process than a certainty.”

Claire blinks. Color rises fast, climbing her throat, and staining her cheeks. The understanding lands a second later—and with it, the anger. Her spine straightens.

Cillian makes a sound that might be a laugh that he smothers with a cough.

“Actually,” Claire says, a little too quickly, brushing her palms over her jeans, “Cillian is the only person I’ve tested.”

Of course he is.

“Mm,” I hum noncommittally, looking at my nails.

There’s a pause, like she’s waiting for me to challenge her, to apologize—something. I give her nothing.

Claire’s smile tightens, brittle now, the edges starting to crack. “So yes,” she adds, a touch sharper, “it should be very straightforward.”

I imagine it must be exhausting, keeping track of which version of the truth you’ve decided on.

I don’t bother to respond to her. Instead, I look at the door again.

Finn leans over to Claire and says in a stage whisper, “You’re really sure he’s my dad, Mum?”

The nails of my right hand press into my left palm.

“Yes, baby,” Claire says, softly, like it’s a private moment between mother and son, instead of something she’s saying in my direction while I’m sitting feet away.

Finn peeks at Cillian with those serious eyes. Cillian looks back at him with an expression I cannot read.

I look again at the door.

“How far along are you now?” Claire asks, pleasantly, leaning forward slightly in her chair. Goddamn, does this woman not realize that I want no part of this conversation? “About three months?”

I raise my eyebrow at her, making sure she can see my disdain. “About that.”

“Such a delicate time.” She nods, the manner of someone sharing hard-won wisdom. “I was so anxious in my first trimester. Every little thing, you know. Hoping everything would just—turn out okay.” There’s a small pause, her eyes warm and full of concern. “It can be such a worrying time. All you can do is hope for the best.”

I hold her gaze, letting it linger.

“Thank you,” I say, with deliberate warmth. “It’s comforting to hear from someone who’s… navigated all the unknowns already.”

Claire blinks. Her warmth falters. There’s a tightness around her mouth now, the faintest quiver in her posture. Cillian coughs or laughs; it’s hard to tell.