Page 14 of Claimed By the Enemy

“You can put whatever label on this you want,” she continues. “Wife, prisoner, asset. It doesn’t matter because I’ll never be yours.”

She’s right, but not in the way she thinks. The problem isn’t what to do with her. The problem is that I’m standing three feet away from a woman who should be my enemy, and all I can think about is how much I want to press her against the counter and taste the pulse point at her throat.

“You should go to bed,” I say.

“Is that an order from my husband?”

The way she says the word—like it tastes bitter on her tongue—sends heat shooting through my veins.

“It’s a suggestion.”

“I don’t take suggestions from you.”

Sophie moves to walk past me, but the kitchen island forces her to come close. Too close. I catch the scent of her shampoo, which makes me think of the morning after we first slept together.

When she draws level with me, she pauses.

“By the way,” she says without looking at me, “congratulations on your wedding day. I hope you got everything you wanted.”

Then she’s gone, leaving me alone in the kitchen with the echo of her words and the lingering warmth of her presence.

I stand there for a long moment, hands clenched at my sides, fighting the urge to follow her upstairs and finish what we started in that hotel room weeks ago.

Instead, I head for the door.

The bar I choose is deliberately far from my usual haunts.

It’s dark, anonymous, and the kind of place where nobody cares who you are as long as your money is good.

I order whiskey and try not to think about green eyes and defiant smiles.

It doesn’t work.

Every sip brings back the image of Sophie in that kitchen. The way her shorts hugged her hips. The way she said “husband” like it was a curse word.

The way she looked at me was like she wanted to hate me, but couldn’t quite manage it.

I’m on my third drink when the question finally surfaces, the one I’ve been avoiding since I slipped that ring on her finger.

Why am I trying to protect a woman who wants to destroy me?

The logical answer is strategy. Keep your enemies close. Control the variables. But logic doesn’t explain the tightness in my chest when I think about someone hurting her. Logic doesn’t explain why I married her instead of simply eliminating the threat she poses.

Logic doesn’t explain why I’m sitting in a dive bar at one in the morning, drinking away the memory of my wife in pajamas.

Wife.

The word still sounds foreign, even in my own head.

I finish my drink and signal for another, but the bartender is busy with other customers. In the mirror behind the bar, I catch sight of my reflection—rumpled suit, loosened tie, the unmistakable look of a man who’s made a decision he can’t take back.

Twenty-four hours ago, I thought I had Sophie Bellini exactly where I wanted her. Now I’m beginning to wonder who’s really been playing whom.

Chapter Five

Sophie

Marriage changes nothing.