Page 119 of Legacy

Cruel.

I swallow the words threatening to spill out, the ones that’ll do nothing but push her further away.

“Any others I should know about?” I ask instead, keeping my voice even.

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing again. “I think your collection of information on me already tells you the rest.”

I still need to know.

“Four then?”

I knew about three, so Rafael is an unwelcomed surprised.

Four months after me was Maxwell Harbor, a student in the same class as her.

Then Zephyr Blackwell, a friend of her brothers, owner of Obsidian a BDSM club here in my city. He flew to her on and off.

Then Russell Marino. Lawyer. The bastard who almost proposed.

Adriana lets out a frustrated sigh and rolls her eyes. “Yes, Angelo. Four men. Do you have a problem with my number over the lastfiveyears?”

I shake my head, shrugging casually even though everything about this conversation is tearing at me. “No. I don’t.”

She studies me for a second too long, like she’s peeling back layers, trying to figure out what I’m not saying.

“Should I even ask about your number?” she says, crossing her arms tighter.

“If you want to know, I’ll give you the number.” I hold her gaze, unflinching. “But I wouldn’t be able to give you names.”

Her face twists, that familiar mix of disgust and disbelief flashing in her eyes.

“Of course you wouldn’t. I’m sure you slept with anything you could over the last five years.”

I don’t respond right away. She’s not wrong. But not in the way she thinks.

“Do you need my clean bill of health?” she presses. “Should be somewhere in your pile of things.”

She’s right. I have a copy of her last clean results filed away like everything else about her. But I’m not about to tell her that.

Instead, I lean forward, leveling her with a stare. “I’ll lay everything on the table, Adriana. Do you want the number or not?”

She shakes her head, that sharp edge softening for just a breath. “I got a picture of how many from the notches on your headboard.”

My lips twitch, and I rub the back of my neck, trying not to laugh. “That’s not what you think it is.”

She doesn’t believe me, but that’s fine. If this is what it takes to keep her here, arguing, pushing at me… I’ll take it.

Her anger means she still cares.

It somehow feels normal.

“It was two weeks though,” she says as she begins to pace.

“What?”

She stops and points to the photo.

“That wastwoweeks after I went back home.”