Page 75 of Vicious Betrayal

His gaze drops to my mouth, and his grip on my arms tightens, his fingers digging into my skin just enough to make me gasp. I can feel the heat of him, the barely restrained desire, the way his body is leaning toward mine like gravity is pulling him in.

Then his entire demeanor hardens. His jaw locks. His eyes go cold. And before I can say anything, he grabs my left hand and yanks it up between us.

"Cormac—"

He doesn't let me finish. His fingers close around the wedding band on my ring finger, and he pulls it off in one sharp, brutal motion. The engagement ring follows, the metal scraping against my knuckle hard enough to sting. I gasp, and I try to pull my hand back, but he holds it firmly, his grip like iron.

"You're not my wife," he says, his voice flat and cold, utterly devoid of emotion.

The words hit me like a slap. "Cormac⁠—"

"Legally, still, maybe," he continues, his accent thicker now, the Irish lilt cutting through the words like a blade. "On paper, sure. But I would never have married you if I'd known what you were doing. I would never have put that ring on your finger if I'd known you were planning to sell me out to the feds."

My throat tightens, tears burning at the corners of my eyes, but I force them back. I won't cry. Not now, in front of him.

"You don't mean that," I whisper, but even as I say it, I know it's a lie. He does mean it. Every word.

"Don't I?" He drops my hand like it's burned him, and I watch as he closes his fist around the rings, the metal glinting between his fingers. "You lied to me, Oksana. You fucked me, you let me fall for you, you married me, and the entire time you were working for the FBI. So no. You're not my wife. You're just a girl I made the mistake of trusting."

The words are like knives, each one cutting deeper than the last, and I feel something inside me crack. Hurt and anger lance through me, entirely unearned, because I'm the one who betrayed him. But I know he loved me—maybe even still loves me, or he wouldn't be so angry—and I can see how much he wants me. I can feel it coming off of him in waves.

And I love him, too. The rejection hurts so badly that I can't help but lash out.

"You want to pretend you feel nothing for me?" I whisper. "Fine. Pretend. But you feel something, Cormac. You can lie to yourself all you want, but your body doesn't lie."

His eyes narrow, and I see the flicker of anger there, the warning that I'm pushing too far. But I don't stop.

"You're standing so close to me I can feel it," I hiss. "The evidence is right there. I could reach down and feel it right now. I know you're hard. You can tell yourself you hate me, that you don't want me, that I'm nothing to you—but we both know that's not true."

For a second, I think he's going to grab me again. That he's going to shove me against the wall or kiss me, or that he's going to do something to prove me wrong.

But he doesn't. He just stands there, his chest heaving, his fist clenched around the rings, his jaw so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin.

Then he takes a step back, and another, then another until there's enough space between us that I can breathe again.

"Get dressed," he says, his voice low and rough. "And stay the fuck away from me."

I don't say anything. I just reach down, grab the pile of clean clothes from the dresser, and clutch the towel tighter around my body. My hands are shaking, my legs unsteady, but I force myself to walk past him, my head held high even though I feel like I'm about to shatter. When I reach the bathroom door, I pause, my hand on the frame, and glance back at him. He's still standing in the middle of the room, the rings in his hand, his expression unreadable.

I lean back against the door, my eyes squeezed shut, my breath coming in shallow gasps. Outside, I hear nothing.

I slide down to the floor, my back against the door, the towel still clutched in my hands, and I let the tears come.

21

CORMAC

Istand there in the center of the motel room, and in my fist, the metal of the two rings bites into my skin. I can feel the outline of the diamond I picked out in that jewelry store, thinking I was buying a lifetime.

My pulse is slamming against my ribs. My cock aches. I look down at my closed hand, and slowly, I pry my fingers open. The stone catches the dull light, and it looks small and meaningless now, stripped of the promises I made myself believe when I slid it onto her finger.

She never said it back. I told her I loved her, but she never told me that. She gave me her body, made me promises, but she never, ever said that she loved me.

Because she was doing a job.

I shove the rings into the side pocket of my leather jacket and zip it. I hear them clink against the spare magazine in the pocket, a cold reminder of what's real and what's fantasy.

Through the thin wood of the bathroom door, I hear a ragged, muffled hitch in her breathing, then a quiet sob. My feet shift on instinct, one step toward the door, then two. My hand rises, knuckles poised an inch from the scratched wood, ready to rap against it and ask if she's alright, if she needs anything…