The Villain (Boston Belles 2)

Uh-huh. You keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.

“Over your dead body, huh?” I groaned, digging deeper into the hoof with the pick.

“No,” she said calmly. “Over yours.”

My gaze shot up to hers, before returning to my work.

“That’s a lot of horses for one man,” my wife commented. “They’re beautiful, but some of them seem quite old. Gray-faced. Do you ride all of them?”

“Yes. They’re all in pristine condition.”

I dropped the pick, then grabbed the brush and moved it over Washington’s hoof.

“My father gifted me a horse for every year I finished top of my class, starting in middle school.”

She strode over to me.

“Isn’t being perfect all the time tiring?” Her hand was on my shoulder now. My muscles flexed. I focused on my task.

“What kind of question is that?”

“One I’d like an answer to.”

“Is being average boring?”

“No,” she replied, no trace of bitterness in her voice. “Then again, I don’t think I’m boring at all. I think I’m exactly who I was supposed to grow up to be, flaws and all. My parents always encouraged me to pursue my dream, and my dream was to raise children. Other people’s as well as my own.”

“Well, I enjoyed the opposite treatment. Everything about my arrival in this world was carefully planned. I came first, and I was male, which meant the expectations from me were complete and utter perfection in all aspects of my life. I knew I was going to carry the Fitzpatrick bloodline, take over Royal Pipelines, continue the lineage. My existence has always had a purpose, and nothing short of excellence will do.”

“You’re not perfect with me.”

“What you witnessed last week was lack of discretion.” I cracked my knuckles. “It wasn’t pretty.”

“No. But we’re all ugly in certain parts, and I’m still here.”

Because I paid for you.

“Come inside.” She ran a hand over my hair, like a mother would. If nothing else, she was going to be good for our children. Better than Jane ever was. “Food’s ready.”

I took her hand and dropped it gently.

“Not hungry.”

“Where are you going to sleep tonight?”

“The master bedroom.”

“Where am I going to sleep tonight?”

“Any of the six guest rooms. I own this place, so you get first choice.”

“I choose your bedroom,” she said without missing a beat.

“First choice other than my bed,” I clarified.

“Our friends will talk,” she warned.

“They have the irritating tendency to do that. Everyone knows ours is a sham marriage. No one’s going to buy your charade.” I stood, leading Washington back to his stall.

After locking the stall behind the horse, I turned around, watching her.

Despite what she thought, I was doing us both a favor. Entertaining her need to make this relationship feel normal would only cause disappointment in the long run. Even if I yielded to the temptation of sharing a bed and the occasional meal with her, she would eventually outgrow the detached arrangement I had to offer her and resent me even more.

“I made a mistake coming here.” She tilted her face up, staring at the moon under a star-filled sky. She was so gorgeous at that moment, so uniquely Persephone, that I wanted to ignore all the facts, scoop her in my arms, and fuck her all night.

Watching her from a safe distance—far enough to prevent breathing in her drugging scent or touching her velvet skin—I agreed.

“You did. I will only have you on my terms, Flower Girl.”

My wife turned her head to face me.

“That wasn’t a part of our contract.”

I hitched up a shoulder, giving her the same answer she gave me when I complained about our agreement.

“Sue me.”

“The lawsuit is airtight. I read through it several times.” Devon passed me a stack of papers the next day over coffee, omelets, and pastries. We sat on the back porch, watching the horses gallop in the field, warming up ahead of the day.

I put my coffee to my lips, skimming through them.

“I’ve spent an unholy amount on money on the Arctic offshore development. I’m not canning this project because Arrowsmith has a hard-on to see me go bankrupt.”

“We won’t go bankrupt,” Hunter interfered, spooning fig jam to smear it over a warm croissant. My clown of a brother had agreed to leave his wife behind for the duration of the breakfast so we could talk shop. “I looked at the numbers. Stopping the drilling in the Arctic is going to hurt our pocket, but we can take the blow. The capital growth will stop for the next four years, but we will still be making money.”

“I’m not here to make money. I’m here to take over the world.” I put my foot down.

“You might not have a choice,” Devon pushed. “If you lose the lawsuit, you’d have to stop anyway. And have plenty of legal bills to pay, another PR disaster on your hands, and a father who’d kick you out of the CEO position, turn the board against you, and appoint Hunter to run the show. No offense, Hunt.”