The Villain (Boston Belles, #2)(52)

Me: Look outside. Do you not see it?

Cillian: Your dead aunt on a cloud? No.

Me: She is not ON it. She IS it. Let me send you a pic.

I raised my phone to the window, snapped a picture of the perfectly fuzzy cloud, and sent it over to him.

Me: Well?

Cillian: Nice to meet you, Persephone’s aunt. You two look nothing alike.

Me: Who is being cute now?

Cillian: Me, apparently.

Me: Don’t worry, I know you’re incapable of anything good and moral. Having a sense of humor won’t tarnish your wickedness.

Cillian: Is that a hint?

Me: What do you mean?

Cillian: The Arctic drilling.

Did I hate the idea of him drilling holes inside the Arctic to see if he can find oil, ruining an already fragile part of the world? Of course I did. It made me sick to my stomach, to think the man I loved and directly profited from did that. But I also recognized talking about it with him now, when we were starting out, wouldn’t make him move an inch. If anything, he’d probably drill in a few more places just to spite me.

Me: It’s not a hint. I think my position on the matter is clear.

Cillian: Batteries over SUVs.

I grinned, remembering the sex toys innuendo he’d made at his office yesterday afternoon.

Me: Correct.

Cillian: Look at your garage, Flower Girl.

I made my way downstairs to the building garage.

Sure enough, there was a brand new red Tesla sitting on my apartment’s allotted spot.

He bought me a car.

An electric car.

The type of vehicle that was supposed to put him out of business eventually.

Not missing what it meant, I typed my husband a reply with shaky fingers.

Me: Thank you.

Cillian: Batteries are for pussies.





I managed to successfully avoid my wife for the rest of the week.

That did not stop her from sending me daily text messages about her dead aunt hiding in clouds every time the sky was clear.

The messages, like my prayers to have a sane wife, remained unanswered.

She had suggested we meet up a few times, despite the radio silence on my end.

The thought of seeing her again disgusted me, so I decided not to consider it until I cooled down.

But seven days in, and my traitorous body made no sign of settling down.

The memory of her writhing beneath me burned hotter at night.

Statistically speaking, limiting our encounters to once a week would still ensure a pregnancy within the next few months.

To be on the safe side, I’d created a chart with her potential ovulating dates and decided to alternate the days in which I saw her each week in order to cover all the bases. But I knew next time we met, I would have to do a better job at reeling in the monster inside me.

No part of me had meant to lose control the first time we had sex, but when I saw her naked tits bouncing to the rhythm of my thrusts and her pink, O-shaped mouth hanging open in desire, I’d lost the self-possession I’d clung to like a desperate Belieber meeting her tattooed, acne-ridden hero and came apart.

I blamed her for the mishap. She was the one who insisted I stop visiting my side pieces and deprived me of a chance to rid myself of my animalistic nature.

Luckily (and I used that term very loosely), I had no time to think about my bride. I had a shitstorm to prepare for in the form of Andrew Arrowsmith.

Upon filing the lawsuit, Arrowsmith had sent me a formal letter through his lawyers, accusing me more or less of single-handedly ruining planet Earth. He had made sure the letter would leak to the press, and all the positive news I’d garnered since marrying Persephone, aka Little Angel Baby Jesus, went down the drain.

Andrew didn’t stop at that. Blind items about a powerful, Boston-based CEO visiting European prostitutes began to pop up like mushrooms after the rain in the tabloids, and I had no doubt he was the one who fed the journalists these pieces.

He had me followed.

Did his homework. Uncovered my secrets. All of them.

Which was why I’d decided to gather Devon, Sam, and Hunter on my ranch for a weekend of brainstorming, horse riding, and planning the demise of my archnemesis.

Bonus points: going to the ranch would put some mileage between Persephone and me.

We were in my car, heading out of Boston, when Devon said aloud what Sam and I were thinking.

“I’m surprised Hunter agreed to spend an entire weekend away from his missus.” He was in the passenger seat next to me while Hunter and Sam sat in the back.

“What can I say? I’m full of surprises.” Hunter slouched back, grinning.

“And shit,” Sam spat out.

“And yourself.” Devon smirked cockily.

Frost covered the narrow, winding road, the same shade as my wife’s eyes.

“Dev, can you check Kill’s temperature?” Hunter nudged the back of his seat. “He just missed a chance to slag me off, as your people call it. It’s unlike him.”

“Very few things would make me touch your twat of a brother, and you are definitely not on the list,” Devon quipped.

Once we parked outside the ranch, my stable boys shot out of the barn like bullets to help us with our suitcases.

Ignoring their toddler-like blabbing, I removed my leather gloves as I made my way into the main cabin. I stopped dead in my tracks when I noticed Sailor’s Porsche Cayenne parked in front of the door. I shot my brother a dirty look.