The Villain

by Shen, L. J.

  The little sh…

  She had a point.

  “I’m going to make your life very miserable if you defy me, Persephone.”

  My wife waved her hand around as she slipped through my door.

  “Been there, done that. Night, hubs!”

  The next day, I loitered in the teachers’ lounge during my lunch break, clutching the leftover Trader’s Joe enchilada, shifting from foot to foot like a punished kid.

  The welts on my butt were sore, but it was the scars Cillian left on my soul that scorched painfully.

  Sex with Kill wasn’t good. No.

  It was mind-blowing. Earth-shattering. Like nothing I’d experienced before.

  But the swiftness in which he pulled out of me and regained his composure made me so lightheaded I couldn’t breathe. Not because I expected hours of spooning and pillow talk, but the switch from responsive to harsh gave me whiplash. The ferocity of my feelings toward him frightened me, and the need to protect him from harm’s way made me seasick.

  Not just seasick, deranged. Immoral.

  I’d never sacrificed my morals for Pax.

  I got it now. Why Cillian paid for sex. It wasn’t that his tastes ran so much on the unconventional side. He lost control when he was with a woman. He came alive, he cursed, he let go. The layers of inhibition he wrapped himself in shed like a snake’s skin, leaving him exposed and raw. He writhed, and trembled, and growled, his heart racing erratically against my back when he entered me.

  I’d gathered my belongings and scurried out of his house before he had the chance to kick me out. I couldn’t risk another rejection. Couldn’t let him walk all over me like I was the Unwelcome rug outside his mansion’s door.

  I just hoped the plan I weaved at the charity event was going to work.

  “Surprise!” two familiar voices screeched from behind me, pulling me out of my reverie.

  I turned around to find Belle and Ash at the door, holding bags of takeout food. I discarded the half-eaten enchilada on one of the round tables.

  “What’re you doing here?” I flung my arms over their shoulders, gathering them into a group hug.

  “Well, Madame Mayhem doesn’t open until this evening, and staring at the wall at home got old about, let’s see”—my sister checked her Tory Burch watch—“two and a half hours ago.” She strutted in wearing a leather mini dress and an oversized, puffy sweater. Taking a seat at a free table, she unpacked her takeout bags.

  “And I had a break in-between classes, so I thought I’d check in on you. You missed our weekly hangout last week, and I got worried. I love my brother, but I also wouldn’t trust him with a plastic spoon.” Aisling laughed.

  That’s fair, considering he’d probably try to shove it up my privates.

  The scent of meatballs, pasta, fettuccini Alfredo, and garlic bread made my stomach grumble. They both sat down, staring at me expectantly. Right. Guess I needed to join them.

  Heaving a sigh, I slid into a chair, hissing when my butt made contact with the plastic.

  Cillian, you son of a gun. The minute I pop your heir out, I’m naming him Andrew. Andrea, if it’s a girl.

  “So how’s life with Lucifer?” Belle stabbed a meatball with a plastic fork, tossing the whole thing into her mouth.

  I spun spaghetti around, giving it some thought. My friends and sister knew Cillian and I lived in separate places, but chalked it up to my wanting to take things slow.

  I was too embarrassed to admit the idea to live apart came from him.

  Begrudgingly, I had to admit Kill ticked every box on the good husband list, even if on technicality. He spoiled me with a lavish wardrobe and state-of-the-art apartment, paid my debt, kept the bad guys at bay, and worshipped my body in ways I didn’t know were possible, introducing me to things I’d never done before.

  He was only stingy with what I craved the most.

  Passion. Emotion. Devotion.

  Demanding those from Kill wasn’t only breaking our contract but it was also smashing it into minuscule pieces and throwing the dust in the air like confetti.

  Not only was it foolish but it was futile, too. Cillian didn’t have the word emotion in his vocabulary, much less an idea of how to feel one. I’d yet to see him sad, hurt, or hopeless. The closest he’d ever gotten to feeling something was annoyance. I irritated him often. But even then, he gained control over his mood with record-breaking speed. Otherwise, my husband reduced his heart to nothing more than a functional organ. An empty, white elephant.

  Chewing, I said, “It’s okay, I guess. Every couple has its ups and downs, right?”

  Belle’s eyes zipped to my half-open shoulder bag hanging from my seat. A drawing one of my students, Whitley, had made for Greta Veitch peeked from it, with the elderly woman’s name on it, surrounded by flowers and hearts.

  “Does he know you still see Pax’s grandmother every week?” Belle asked.

  “He found out yesterday.” I sliced a meatball with my plastic fork.

  “Snap.” My sister winced. “How did you break the news?”

  “I didn’t. Someone else did.”

  “Who?” Ash’s cornflower eyes widened.

  I didn’t know for sure, but it didn’t take a genius to put two and two together. The Arrowsmiths.

  I shrugged. “Not really sure. But it’s out in the open now. He demanded I stop visiting her.”

  “Bastard has no right to demand you flush the toilet after taking a dump at his place.” Belle narrowed her eyes, clearly ignoring her vow to stop trash-talking my husband after losing a poker game. “Your marriage came with a hefty price tag, and every feminist bone in your body ain’t one of them.”

  “I refused him,” I said calmly.

  Ash reached to rub my arm. “At least you tried.”

  “And succeeded.” I brought another forkful of spaghetti to my mouth. “He backed off.”

  “What?” both Belle and Ash squealed.

  “Are you sure?” Aisling looked between my sister and me, her mouth hanging open. “I’ve known Kill since the day I was born and can count his losses on one hand. One finger, actually. Maybe half a finger. A pinky.”

  “Positive,” I said, leaning forward and dropping my voice to a whisper. “Can I ask you a few questions, Ash?”

  “Goes without saying.”

  “Does Cillian have a demon fountain in his garden?”

  I’d thought about that fountain since the day Hunter had pointed it out during our time at the ranch but couldn’t find it. Yesterday, while Cillian took me from behind, my eyes searched every point in his garden. My only bet was the fountain was in the small courtyard behind the garden. There was an ivy-laced door with high timber walls that seemed out of style with the rest of the garden.

  “He does,” she said. “At least, he did.”

  Did.

  Of course.

  Maybe he just tore the fountain prior to the wedding ceremony. Either way, I knew asking Cillian was futile. I was never going to get a straight answer.

  “Thanks. Next question.” I cleared my throat. “Do you know what his beef with Andrew Arrowsmith is about? There seems to be buckets of bad blood between them, but your older brother isn’t the most forthcoming man of our generation.”

  “Criminal understatement. You could extract more information from a garlic press.” Belle unscrewed a bottle of water, rolling her eyes. “Hashtag fact.”

  “I know of Arrowsmith.” Aisling frowned, weighing her words. “There’s an age gap between Cillian and me. I was still in diapers when he and Arrowsmith were friends, but from my understanding, they were inseparable at a point. The way the story goes—mind you, I picked scraps and pieces of it from different sources and puzzled it all together in my head—Kill and Andrew were best friends from birth. They were born on the same day, at the same Boston hospital, both a little underweight. My father had met Andrew’s father while both of them were watching their newborn sons through a glass window. Shortly after, Athair had hired
Andrew’s dad as an accountant for Royal Pipelines. Cillian and Andrew did everything together, and when it was time for Kill to go to Evon as per our family tradition, Athair footed half the bill and sent Andrew along with him. Kill and Andy were like brothers. Spending their summer vacations together. Riding together, having sleepovers, planning world domination side by side. Until Athair fired Andrew’s dad and sued him for all the money he’d stolen from Royal Pipelines, leaving the Arrowsmith family penniless and struggling to make ends meet. Athair cut off the cash flow to Andrew’s education, punishing the son for his father’s sins. Andrew’s dad refused to admit defeat and pull his son out of Evon the first year. He wanted to save face. The family resorted to begging their relatives for loans. Some say Andrew’s mother, Judy, became some rich guy’s plaything to keep their heads above water. Andrew’s parents divorced not long after. He dropped out of Evon the following year and moved into a tiny apartment in Southie with his mother and sister. Their lives fell apart, and so did the close friendship between Andy and Kill. The families drew an invisible line in Boston, splitting it down the middle, avoiding one another at all costs.”

  Andrew knows my secret, Kill had said.

  I couldn’t think of one thing that would embarrass the immaculate, flawless Cillian Fitzpatrick. But if Andrew used to be his best friend—he had access to his soul, too.

  Back when he had one.

  “Did Andrew try to retaliate for your father’s decision through Kill?” I asked.

  Ash shook her head, hitching a shoulder up, in a beats-me kind of way.

  “Mom said the one year Andrew and Cillian spent in Evon together almost cost her a son. My older brother lost a lot of weight, quit playing polo, and withdrew completely from the world. My brother has always been cold and different, but after that year, everyone agreed he’d become, well…” Ash took a deep breath, dropping her gaze to the scarred table in front of us. “Soulless.”

  The word slammed into me, bursting like acid. I wanted to flip the table and its contents over and scream, he has a soul. So much soul. More than you’d ever know.

  Belle passed me a drink of water, sensing the threads of my poise tattering. Andrew did something terrible to Cillian. That much I was certain of.

  And Cillian, in return, became who he was today.

  “Thanks for sharing this with me, Ash.” I reached to squeeze her hand.

  She sealed my hand in hers. “That’s what sisters-in-law are for, right? Just please don’t tell Kill. He’ll never forgive me.”

  “Your secret’s safe with us,” Belle assured her.

  The question was, was my husband’s secret safe with Andrew Arrowsmith?

  One thing was for sure: I wasn’t about to wait to find out.

  Later that day, I walked into an empty apartment.

  The nakedness of it didn’t register at first, maybe because I never considered it fully mine.

  The furniture remained in place, shiny, futuristic, and cherry-picked by the interior designer. The kitchen appliances twinkled, the quirky family pictures and scented candles I’d brought with me when I moved in were still perched over the mantel.

  I strode into my walk-in closet to get ready for a yoga class and realized it was empty.

  My clothes were gone. So were my shoes, my toiletries, and the few personal belongings I’d stashed in one of the guest rooms. I tiptoed through the apartment, my pulse stuttering against my wrist. Had I been robbed?

  It made no sense. Byrne and Kaminski exited my life, leaving skid marks in their wake. I knew I was under Sam Brennan’s protection for as long as I was Cillian’s wife, which had added a perverse sense of invincibility to my existence.

  Besides, burglars would have taken the expensive Jackson Pollock paintings and flashy electronics I hadn’t even bothered to learn how to use.

  I padded barefoot to the kitchen and found a note on the granite island.

  In the spirit of trying to knock you up and get rid of you as soon as possible, I am moving you to my estate until you are with child.

  Faithlessly,

  Cillian

  My initial instinct was to pick up the phone and inform my husband, in decibels more fitting to an Iron Maiden concert, that the pigs called—they wanted their chauvinism back.

  I bit my tongue until warm, thick blood filled my mouth, then drew a ragged breath and decided—again—to beat Kill at his own twisted game.

  Cillian was concerned about his position in my life and wanted to keep me close. Whatever bullshit excuse he gave himself for moving my stuff into his mansion—the Arrowsmiths, my visiting Mrs. Veitch, the shape of the moon—didn’t matter. The bottom line was, he was breaking his own rule—no living under the same roof—to keep me close.

  It surprised me that he had let me get away with breaking the non-compete clause. When I’d told him I was going to work for Andrew Arrowsmith, and that if it didn’t suit him, he was welcome to file for a divorce, I was almost certain he’d kick me out of his mansion and life.

  It had also surprised me how he seemed to accept that I kept in touch with Greta Veitch. Not that he had any say in the matter, but I figured he’d put me through hell once he’d realized I wasn’t going to cater to his whims like everyone else did.

  I probably should have told him about my weekly visits to Greta. Then again, Kill never gave me a chance to talk to him. Since he hadn’t asked me about my relationship with Paxton even once, I hadn’t offered any information.

  In truth, Pax and I were done before I’d even found out that he lost all our money.

  Before I’d set eyes on my ex-husband for the first time.

  Before I’d tugged Paxton behind a living sculpture for a make-out session, frantic and full of vengeance, in a pathetic attempt to forget how Cillian rejected me.

  Move on.

  Marry someone boring, like you.

  Paxton had worked at the wedding as a part of the security staff and enjoyed my attentions the entire night. Every time I bumped into Kill, with his frosty detachment, I ran back to Paxton’s arms. By the time the sun rose the next morning, with Sailor and Hunter off to their honeymoon, Paxton was tucked inside my bed, arm flung over my naked back, snoring contently.

  He’d stuck around, and I’d never questioned his existence in my life.

  I just thought Auntie Tilda had worked her magic and sent me a love to help me forget the one I was never meant to have.

  Grabbing my bag, I slid into my Tesla and drove the short distance to Cillian’s house. Petar opened the gate and directed me to my new parking spot. He led me to a room on the second floor, right next to the master bedroom, blabbing happily about the home theater system, jogging trail that framed the property, and indoor pool like an eager realtor.

  “Petar, can you show me the demon fountain?” I asked him when we climbed up the stairs.

  He froze, then shook his head. “Mr. Fitzpatrick wouldn’t want me to. No.”

  Dang it.

  I wasn’t surprised to find all my things in my room. My possessions were unpacked, and my clothes folded, hung, and arranged neatly in a walk-in closet.

  “Anything you need, just let us know.” Petar bowed his head, an impish beam on his face. “Seriously. A home-cooked meal, extra pillows…the name of a good shrink. I’m at your service, Persephone. On call twenty-four seven.”

  Chuckling, I gave him the thumbs-up. “Thanks, Petar. You’re a star.”

  He turned to leave while I pulled out my laptop. My yoga class had already started, so I might as well prepare new material for next week’s school lesson plans.

  “May I say something?” Petar stopped at the door.

  I looked up from my laptop, surprised. “Of course.”

  “I can’t tell you how happy everyone in this place is to have you here. I’m not sure how exactly you managed to persuade Mr. Fitzpatrick into moving in—I’ve never seen a woman who wasn’t an employee, his sister, or his mother set foot in this house—but I’m glad nonetheless.”r />
  My smile stayed intact, but something rattled in my chest. Something very close to maternal wrath I couldn’t completely understand. How lonely was Cillian that he hadn’t entertained any women in this place before?

  The fact Kill had broken so many of his contract clauses with me had planted a seed of hope in my heart. I knew if I watered it with wishful thinking and faith, it would grow and blossom into expectations.

  And expectations from a man who swore to never love you were a dangerous thing.

  “I intend to stick around.” I kept my voice neutral.

  “I hope you will.” Petar nodded. “And if there’s anything I can do to make you stay, please let me know.”

  As soon as he spun on his heel and left, I made my way into Cillian’s room.

  I had some homework to do if I wanted to learn who my husband really was.

  I ended up dozing off on Cillian’s bed, the mixture of adrenaline, heartache, and anger making my systems crash. I should have gone back to my room, but his linens were drenched with his scent, and the temptation to nuzzle into them was too much. Besides, pissing off my new husband had become something I was dazzlingly good at—why break a tradition?

  It was hours later, after the sun had already set, when a nudge to my foot stirred me awake. I stretched on the king-sized bed, blinking the world into focus.

  Kill sat on the edge of the mattress, clad in a sharp navy suit, complete with a gray tie and a pea coat. His aroma—of ice, the crisp night, and cedar wood—told me he just got home. Didn’t even stop to take his coat off.

  “That’s not your bed,” he announced.

  “If I’m good enough to warm it, I’m good enough to sleep in it.”

  I pushed up on my elbows, blowing my hair out of my eyes.

  “No one said you’re good enough to warm it. I took you on the kitchen counter and against the window, not my bed.”

  “Keeping track and cherishing every moment, I see.” I batted my eyelashes.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Aww, but you started it, hubs. What’s the time, anyway?” I looked around. My stomach growled, begging to be fed.