Chapter 4

I flinched and asked before I could think: "Why are you back?"

Rhys let out a soft, mocking laugh. "What? Afraid I'd get in the way of you and your college boy?"

I didn't know how to answer that.

Sometimes, when the house bored him, Rhys would take a girl out for the night and not come home for days on end.

I'd assumed this time would be the same.

Luckily, he didn't press it. Instead his eyes settled on the plate in my hands.

Then, out of nowhere: "Martha, I don't think I've ever eaten anything you cooked."

I drew my hands back.

He must have caught how reluctant I was, because he took a deliberate step forward and lifted the plate right out of my grip.

He sat down at the table with easy grace and began to eat, unhurried.

Irritation prickled at me until I couldn't hold it in. "Rhys, that wasn't made for you."

He acted as if he hadn't heard.

When he finished, he dropped the chopsticks, took a napkin to his mouth, and let two words fall from those vivid red lips: "Tastes awful."

Looking at the plate he'd scraped completely clean, I nearly laughed from anger.

I tossed back a line: "If it tastes so bad, have Maisie cook for you."

Then I turned and headed for my room.

I'd barely reached the door when Rhys followed and, without warning, pinned me against the wall. His fingers slid past the hem of my shirt where they had no business being, and his voice came out hoarse. "Martha, have a baby for me."

Goosebumps swept over every inch of me.

Not from the charged air. From fear.

After what happened on our first wedding anniversary, Rhys had never touched me again.

He thought I was dirty.

I'd tried, unwilling to accept it, to tempt him back a few times.

The first time, he filmed me and sent it to his group chat with the guys. Every one of them saw me at my most humiliating.

For a while after that, I couldn't bring myself to leave the house.

The last time, he took me to a private club and told me that if I was so starved for a man I could go and service the clients there. I knelt and begged him, crying until my face was a mess, and only then did he let me off.

After that, I never dared cross the line again.

So when Rhys came close, I assumed he'd dreamed up some new way to torment me, and I hurried to get out of his reach.

He didn't like that. He forced himself closer and pressed a kiss to my lips.

The faint smell of alcohol spread between us, and only then did I realize it—Rhys was drunk.

He couldn't hold his liquor. One glass and he was gone.

In all our years together, the only time he'd ever drunk was the day he married me.

So he really did like Maisie. Enough to let his guard all the way down and get drunk without a care in front of her.

Something sour spread through my chest, but my voice stayed gentle, still coaxing him. "Rhys, you're hurting me. Let go, please?"

Rhys tilted his head. He was always easy to handle once he'd been drinking, and he let go of my hand quickly.

I'd barely started to breathe again, hadn't even gotten a word out, when Rhys hooked an arm around my waist, lifted me one-handed, and kicked the bedroom door open.

He laughed low against me. "Martha, I know you put the college boy I found for you in the guest room. You didn't sleep with him. You only kept him around to spite me, didn't you?"

"No, I kept him because—"

I never got to finish. His kiss came down over me, everywhere at once, swallowing any sound I could make.

Panic sent me struggling with everything I had, and my hand caught the light switch by accident.

The pitch-black room flared bright all at once. I squinted, and once my eyes adjusted and I took in the sight on the bed, my whole body went rigid.

Russ Harding sat quietly at the head of the bed, hugging a pillow.

His long hair fell across those eyes dark as smoke, so I couldn't read his face.

And across his lap lay Maisie, fast asleep, sweetly at peace.

I didn't understand how Russ had ended up tangled up with Maisie, but on instinct my hand went up to cover Rhys's eyes.

He liked Maisie so much. I was afraid of what he might do to Russ if he saw them.

But I'd overestimated my own strength. Rhys caught my wrist and pushed my hand away without effort.

Most of the drunkenness had drained out of him. For the first time, those peach-blossom eyes that were always smiling held no smile at all.

He looked at Russ, his voice cold as ice. "Who the hell are you?"