Page 143 of Carnal Wagers

“We can work through this, whatever the issue. You just have to tell me what it is.”

He scoffed. “Guess, bhean chéile.”

Chapter 35

I stiffened. Wife. He called me wife. I licked my lips as bile burned up my throat.

“How? You didn’t…when?” I glanced at his closed-off expression for a clue, our height difference stark without my high heels on. Not this morning—he must have already known. Last night was perfect until… “Brody. He recognized me?”

Cillian’s pinched lips curled up in disgust, and he jerked around to the bathroom, bag in tow.

“Wait.” I ran after him. “I was going to tell you.”

Vicious laughter scraped out of his throat. “No, you weren’t.”

He slammed a fist against the men’s changing room door, and it banged open.

“I was,” I said as he disappeared inside. I knocked on the door after him. “Tonight. Cillian, listen.” My forehead fell against the door. “I promise. I planned to tell you tonight. I just wanted one more perfect moment with you. Believe me. Chéri, please.”

The door sprang open, and he dragged me inside, then clamped it shut.

“You lied to me,” he snarled, forcing my arms over my head. “Now you expect me to believe you. That’s rich.”

With a gentleness that didn’t match the anger crackling off him, he untied my scarf and eased my turtleneck off. Then he slipped the thermal shirt over my arms and head. His tenderness made my head spin.

“You avoided me for years,” I told him as he crouched at my feet and took off one tennis shoe, then the other. “As your wife, all I did was get close to you. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

He slipped the thermal socks on my feet, followed by the pants over my leggings, and tugged them up taut. Next came the gaiter, which he adjusted with special care not to put pressure on my bruises. Lastly, he bundled me back up in my sweater. All done, I expected the moment to end, for him to step back, and for his cruel edge to return. Instead, he kissed my forehead. His mouth lingered with warm puffs of breath. This was the Cillian I knew and loved.

“It’s good that you know,” I whispered. “We can move forward from here.”

“I kill liars in my own ranks, síbhean. What makes you think I’d accept it of you?”

“I didn’t lie to you.”

He shoved himself away from me with a sneer. “You just don’t let up.”

“I never denied being who I am. I never told you any differently.”

With quick tugs and pulls, he undressed, then refitted his athletic wear over a layer of thermals.

“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. Even your damn name was a lie.”

“Was it?” I was prepared to die on this hill because I’d been cautious about what I told him since the day we crossed paths on our seventh anniversary.

“You’ve always got something to say. Always needing the last word,” he jeered as he walked me up against the door. “Ever wonder if maybe we’re here because I’ve chosen to end it? It’s so easy for a chute to get stuck. For a small tear in the fabric to rip wide open. And so difficult to investigate when all that’s left is a bloody pulp.”

“You wouldn’t.”

He bared his teeth. “Watch me.”

The backs of my eyes burned. A phantom ache of Brody’s hand around my neck throbbed, as if my husband were squeezing the life out of me with his words.

After fetching a heavy-looking broad-pocket brown envelope from his bag, he forced the door open and scooted me aside, but I wasn’t one to be shooed away with a few harsh words.

“Do you know”—I slipped my shoes back on—“how many times I’ve been called Alice here over my many visits to the US? Apparently, pronouncing a zé instead of a ce is too foreign. Don’t tell me you don’t understand. How many times have people pronounced Cillian with an S instead of a K? How does that make Alice a lie for Alizé?”