Page 63 of Ruthless Claim

Emma listens with both her full attention and another two contractions, and at the end of it she looks at me and exhales. “You like him.”

I stiffen at that, my stomach bottoming out. “I didn’t say that.”

“You like him,” she repeats, delighted. But then a contraction hits and she grabs my hand and the delight goes somewhere else for a moment.

When it passes she’s slightly sweaty and still smiling.

“Again, I didn’t say that⁠—”

“Do you remember,” she starts, conversationally, “the first time we met?”

Her line of questioning confuses me. “Of course,” I say slowly, not sure where she’s going with this.

“You walked into that library,” she continues pleasantly, like she’s recounting a fond memory, “looked me up and down, and told me I was making myself comfortable in a kidnapping like it was a vacation.”

I stiffen, very much remembering that first initial meeting. “That was a different situation entirely⁠—”

“You called me naive. You said I was acting like a guest instead of a captive.” She brushes a strand of hair out of her face. “You said, and I’m fairly confident I have this verbatim: what exactly is wrong with you that you’re not more upset about this.”

Shame courses through me as I remember the anger I felt when I saw Emma Brennan sitting in my brother’s library as if she didn’t have a care in the world. “I was concerned⁠—”

“You were hostile,” she says warmly, not at all looking offended. “You decided I was the enemy before I said a word. You came in ready to hate me and you were very good at it.” She squeezes my hand once. “And now you’re sitting in my labor room with feelings about a Brennan and I just want to make sure we’re both appreciating the full scope of this moment.”

Okay no, these are two different situations and I don’t like that she’s trying to compare them. “Cillian is not—he wasn’t holding me against my will⁠—”

“No, he was just handed to you by my father, which is arguably worse.” She watches me. “Val. I’m not making fun of you. I’m seriously super happy.” A contraction starts and she breathes through it, grip tightening. When it ebbs, she continues, “I’m delighted because I remember sitting in that library thinking this woman is going to be the most exhausting person I’ve ever met and I was right. I love you anyway and now you’re making the same face I made when I realized I was in trouble with Leo.”

I scowl at her. “I am not making a face⁠—”

“You’re making a face.”

“I’m not…” I stop and press my lips together. I look at the wall. “It’s not the same as you and Leo.”

“It never is,” she says simply. “Mine was a kidnapping. Yours is an arrangement. They’re never the same. That’s not the point.” She turns my hand over in hers. “The point is that you came in there ready to protect Leo from me. You told me I didn’t belong. And now you’re in it up to your neck with someone you didn’t choose and something is happening that you don’t know what to do with.” She raises her eyebrows. “I’m just saying. I was right about me. I might be right about you.”

I look at her for a long moment. She looks back, green eyes steady, a small smile at the corner of her mouth.

“I hate you,” I tell her.

She breathes out a laugh. “No, you don’t.”

I exhale. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit, deciding to throw Emma a bone. “With him. I don’t have a framework for it.”

“I know.” She squeezes my hand. “You don’t need a framework. You just need to stop performing your way out of it.” She holds my gaze. “You told me I was acting like a guest. Stop acting like a guest in your own life, Val. Whatever this is—let it be something.”

Another contraction takes her before I can answer.

Which is, possibly, a mercy.

By mid-morning the waiting room has filled up.

My mother arrives looking immaculate.

Gianna Santoro could be in a natural disaster and she would emerge with her hair right.

She sits beside me and takes my hand and squeezes. I lean into her slightly, letting myself be mothered.

Teresa arrives half an hour after that.