“My, what big ears you have,” he says lightly, but his mood darkens palpably.
“Tell me.”
“It’s not a matter for you.” He puts his fork down after only having a bite of the chocolate cake and wipes his mouth.
“Does it have to do with my family?”
He sits silent, watching me.
“The other attempt on your life, does it have to do with us? Is it why you hate anyone with the last name Moreno?”
“Stop, Ivy.”
“Is it why you chose me?”
His phone buzzes, and he glances at it. It’s been beside him on the table, but he’s ignored it mostly. He pushes his chair back. “This doesn’t have anything to do with you,” he says, emphasis on the word you.
“But my family, though?” I remember how he’s accused me of being a Moreno as if it is a horrible thing.
“Enough.” He stands. “I need to take care of some things, and you need to get to bed. It’s late.”
“I’m not finished.”
He glances at the single bite of cake still on my plate. “All right. Finish.”
I break the piece in half and put one part into my mouth. “Why didn’t you tell me Evangeline had come to see me?” She mentioned it in one of her letters. She’d taken the bus to get here, an hour of travel time, and she’d been turned away at the door.
He sits back down. “Do I need to remind you of the circumstances?”
I grit my jaw and cut the other already bite-size piece into an even smaller one. “Can I see her? And my dad?”
“Not your father.”
“Why not? What harm could it do? You know now it wasn’t me who tried to kill you. You know someone set me up too. Doesn’t that put us on the same side for once?”
“That’s enough.” He stands again and pulls out my chair. “Go to bed.”
“He loved you. Did you know that?”
There’s that tic again. And a flicker of emotion. “Go to bed, Ivy. Now.”
“You were like a son to him. His favorite son, in fact. It’s why Abel hates you. I used to be jealous of you, too. Did you know that?”
He draws in a sharp breath. “Your father did not love me,” he says tightly with an emotion he’s trying to hide. “If you hate him, that’s for different reasons.”
“Hate him? I don’t hate him. I’m sick with worry for him, and you won’t let me see him, and I don’t understand why.” Now, I stand. “Especially now. After the other night.”
“The other night? What does the other night have to do with anything?”
“We talked about a baby.”
“An heir.”
“A baby. A life! And you said he’d be loved.”
“I said I would do what is necessary. I never used the word love. That was you, Ivy.”
I falter. Did I misread things? The emotion I thought I saw? The connection we’d made?
His phone vibrates with yet another message, and his expression turns ugly as he replies to it. “Go to your room.” He takes a step to leave.
“My room. Not yours?”
He stops, then turns back to me. “I sleep alone. It’s better—”
“It’s not better. I’m your wife!” I push the chair in, but it catches on the carpet, and I have to pick it up to do it.
“Ivy, you’re picking a fight. Tonight is not the night. What I meant is—”
“I can’t live like this. I’m going crazy. My head is spinning. One minute you hold me, make love to me, talk to me about babies. The next, you dismiss me, sending me to my room, not yours. Not ours. You don’t tell me anything even when I’m the one who would have paid the steepest price for what happened to you. You still don’t tell me anything when I know you know much more than you’re letting on, and I have a right to know.”
“A right?”
“Yes. A fucking right!”
“That’s more than enough.” He takes my arm and starts to walk me out of the room. “I’m going to blame the alcohol.”
“Get off me! I’ll go on my own. I know when I’m not wanted.”
Without a word and without missing a step, he marches me up the stairs, hand tight around my arm but not bruising. And some part of me knows he’s taking care with me. But it’s not enough.
When we get to my door, he opens it and releases me only when we’re inside.
I take two steps away. “Are you going to lock me in? Don’t worry, I won’t try to sneak into your bed!”
He comes toward me, takes my arms, rubs them as he walks me backward. “Ivy, Ivy, Ivy. Don’t you think I want you in my bed?”
“No, I don’t.” I shove his hands away, but he traps me between the wall and himself. “You’ve given me every indication that you do not. Except when you want a fuck.”
“Shh.” He brushes a loose strand of hair back, then dips his forehead to mine. “Are you going to listen?”
“No.”
He sighs, drawing back. His phone goes off again, and I can see he wants to look at it.
“Just go. I don’t want to keep you.” I fold my arms across my chest and look away from him.
He reads the message on his screen, and I try to catch it, but I only see one word, Mercedes, before he tucks it into his pocket. He looks back up at me.
“You’re not unwanted,” he says.
I feel myself soften and my eyes warm with tears.
“What I meant about my bed is that I have violent dreams. And sometimes, I lash out in my sleep. I don’t want to hurt you any more than I already have.” His thumb comes to the dot of ink from his tattoo gun. I know he feels guilty about that. The tiny but constant reminder of what he almost did to me.
I want to say something. I want to have some reason to lash out at him, but his sad smile and gentle touch
