“Careful, hubs, or I’ll suspect you have a soul.”

“Nobody has a soul. What I have is a few working brain cells and loose principles.”

“Nobody has a soul?” I echoed, dumbfounded. “I know you don’t believe in feelings, or God, but you don’t believe in souls, either?”

“Do you?” He took a smooth turn into our neighborhood. We lived only a few blocks away from each other.

“Of course,” I said, incredulous.

“Where is it then?” His amber eyes were still on the road. “Your soul. Anatomically.”

“Just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it’s not in existence. Take air, for instance. Or intelligence. Or love.”

“The fact you shove the L-word into every conversation says a lot about you, you know.”

“There are no facts, Cillian my dear. Only interpretations.”

It was his turn to shoot me a disbelieving look.

“Nietzsche.”

“I married a nihilist.” I ran a hand over the soft satin of my gown. I’d spent the past few weeks reading everything Nietzsche and Heidegger like my life depended on it. “The least I could do before saying I do was to take a tour in that mind of yours. Understand your moral compass.”

“I have no morals. That’s the point of being a nihilist.”

You boycott companies and people because once upon a very long time, they stood for something you strongly disagreed with. You are nothing but morals.

Of course, pointing that out was only going to make us argue more. It was best to make him find out for himself that he wasn’t the asshole he thought he was.

He took a turn to my street and parked in front of my apartment building. A doorman stood at the entrance. I put my hand on the door handle, drawing a breath before shoving it open.

“Persephone.”

I whipped my head around, my eyes clinging to his face.

“We still haven’t discussed the conception part.”

“There’s nothing to discuss. You can start taking my calls. Better yet—call me when you’re ready to start trying. We can hit the road running and get pregnant by summer.”

I wanted children with all my heart. Was always the girl who tucked her dolls into little plastic strollers while her sister climbed on trees and skateboarded with the boys.

All I ever wanted was a family of my own. Babies and matching plaid jammies and elaborate Christmas trees with handmade decorations.

“What are my chances of convincing you to go the IVF route?” Kill asked, businesslike.

“Nonexistent,” I said flatly. “We have a deal.”

“Fine. I’ll have someone send over ovulation tests. Call me when you’re ready.”

“That’s a no from me.”

“Excuse me?” He whipped his head in my direction. Did I finally manage to anger him? Probably not, but at least he didn’t look his cool, dead self for a moment.

“I don’t want to take tests. I like the element of surprise.” I shrugged, deliberately provoking him.

“Is there a point to having sex if you are not ovulating?” To his defense, he tried. Tried to cling to the remainder of his calm with everything he had. But I intended to snap it.

“There is,” I replied sunnily.

“Do share it.”

“I’ll orgasm.”

For the first time in my life, I saw the Cillian Fitzpatrick blushing. I could swear it. Even in the dim light cast by the streetlamps, I noticed his face turning a shade I’d never seen on him before. His mouth pressed in a hard line.

“Sexual favors weren’t a part of our negotiation.”

“Sue me.” I threw the passenger door open but didn’t get out just yet. “Look, if you don’t want to touch me this much, don’t bother. You don’t have to sleep with me, Kill. But if you want me to give you a baby, that’s the route you’ll have to take. And another thing.” I turned to him. I could tell he was shocked by my bold behavior. He was counting on a watered-down version of his sister. And to an extent, I was exactly that person—romantic, sweet, always willing to help.

But I knew damn well that with Kill, I had to fight back if I wanted to earn his respect, his trust, and a place in his life.

He stared at me, cracking his fingers under the stirring wheel.

“You, my darling husband, kiss like a hungry Rottweiler.”

No response.

“You really need to work on your tongue-to-lips ratio. And you use way too much saliva.”

He continued staring at me, ridiculously unmoved.

C’mon. Feel something. Anything. Anger! Wrath! Disgust! I’m insulting you.

“I guess I can teach you.” I let out a sigh.

“Hard pass.”

“But you—”

“Drop it, Persephone. In order to insult me, I’ll first have to value your opinion, and as established five minutes ago, I don’t value anything.”

“Your loss.”

“Never heard any complaints.”

“Of course you haven’t!” I got out of his car, slamming the door in his face. “You don’t pay them to grade you. Good night, hubs.”

Turning around, I walked away, feeling his eyes on me the entire time.

I entered my new golden cage, knowing full well that for all its gilded beauty, it was, after all, still a cage.

The three weeks after my wedding day were littered with almosts.

I almost called Persephone when the urge to go to Europe and satisfy my needs torched my blood. It was nothing short of a miracle I’d managed to take care of business in my shower with a hand propped over the mosaic tiles, rubbing one out like a crazed teenager.

I almost drove straight to her apartment when I spotted Sailor prancing around my office with her tiny baby bump, bringing Hunter lunch and finally looking like an expectant mother and not like a six-year-old scrawny boy who had an extra serving of Brussels sprouts.

I almost texted my wife when I saw a paparazzi picture of her in a local gossip column Devon had sent me in which she headed to a hot yoga class with her sister clad in tight yoga pants and a sports bra.

And I almost used her as a consolation prize this morning when I arrived at the office to find a billboard the size of a goddamn building—one that was directed to my office window—with my face on it, fake blood dripping from the corner of my mouth.

The #1 Western World Villain is here to kill the polar bears

And your planet.

Goddamn Andrew Arrowsmith.

Every time I was about to make a move, I remembered how she deliberately tried to anger me the night I dropped her off at her new apartment.

Everything about my wife was messy, annoying, and inconvenient. The worst part was that somehow the docile little creature had managed to put me at a spot of disadvantage.

In order to impregnate her, I needed to see her.

Which I very much didn’t want to do.

The ball was in my court, and I wanted to kick it across the world where I wouldn’t have to see or hear her. Where I wouldn’t have to taste her.

I was struggling to remember what made me agree to stay celibate.

I was even more puzzled by the fact I had kept my word.

With a trip to my mistresses firmly off the table, I drowned myself in work while trying to think of loopholes of how to impregnate her without touching her. She and I had very different ideas of what sex should entail, and tarnishing her with my filthy hands and mind was not something I was willing to entertain.