Page 102 of Desperate Games

His lips twitch. He’s smirking. Smirking.

Something inside me unravels.

I grab the nearest thing in reach—the dish towel—and hurl it at his face. He catches it one-handed, lazy, like I just tossed him a softball.

The bastard.

So, I grab the tin of tea leaves next. Hurl it straight at his chest.

He bats it away with a chuckle.

“Why are you throwing things, Wife?”

His eyes narrow, nostrils flare, and my whole body buzzes with anger, lust, and raw, choking need.

“Tell me,” he demands, voice low, dangerous.

“Fuck you,” I spit. “I want a divorce.”

His growl shakes the room.

“No. You’re mine, Mrs. Falco. I’m never giving you a divorce.”

He closes the distance in two long strides, hands gripping my arms, pulling me tight against him—close enough that I feel caged, trapped, branded.

He’s careful of my belly, but the power in his hold—the possession—is unmistakable.

“Now tell me the real reason you’re mad. You jealous, Wife? You think I was fooling around with that Greek prick and those plastic dolls of his?”

Images flash—Remy’s inked-up body wrapped around someone else. His big hands gripping hips that aren’t mine. His mouth on another woman’s skin.

The thought blinds me with rage.

“Were you?” The words tear out of me, raw, jagged.

I shove against him, desperate to get free, but it’s like fighting steel. His arms are iron bands, unyielding.

He lets me squirm for a moment before locking me even tighter to him, one hand sliding up to cup the back of my neck, forcing my gaze to his.

“No.” His voice is a growl, a snarl, a vow.

His grip tightens, and his eyes—those glittering emeralds—are blazing.

Not just with anger, but with hurt. With desire. With something dangerously close to devotion.

And suddenly, I feel like the one who’s bleeding here. Like I wounded him.

“How would I know?” My voice cracks, traitorously soft.

“Because I am telling you?—”

“Well, why should I believe you?” My voice spikes, shrill with desperation. “We hardly know each other, and it’s not like you married me because you wanted to!”

The words slice out, cutting me deeper than they could ever cut him. But his flinch tells me they land anyway.

And fuck, that only makes me angrier—angrier because the solid heat of him pressed against me is making me ache.

Making me wet. Making me feel things I don’t want to feel when I should be shoving him out the door.