Heaving a sigh, I slid into a chair, hissing when my butt made contact with the plastic.

Cillian, you son of a gun. The minute I pop your heir out, I’m naming him Andrew. Andrea, if it’s a girl.

“So how’s life with Lucifer?” Belle stabbed a meatball with a plastic fork, tossing the whole thing into her mouth.

I spun spaghetti around, giving it some thought. My friends and sister knew Cillian and I lived in separate places, but chalked it up to my wanting to take things slow.

I was too embarrassed to admit the idea to live apart came from him.

Begrudgingly, I had to admit Kill ticked every box on the good husband list, even if on technicality. He spoiled me with a lavish wardrobe and state-of-the-art apartment, paid my debt, kept the bad guys at bay, and worshipped my body in ways I didn’t know were possible, introducing me to things I’d never done before.

He was only stingy with what I craved the most.

Passion. Emotion. Devotion.

Demanding those from Kill wasn’t only breaking our contract but it was also smashing it into minuscule pieces and throwing the dust in the air like confetti.

Not only was it foolish but it was futile, too. Cillian didn’t have the word emotion in his vocabulary, much less an idea of how to feel one. I’d yet to see him sad, hurt, or hopeless. The closest he’d ever gotten to feeling something was annoyance. I irritated him often. But even then, he gained control over his mood with record-breaking speed. Otherwise, my husband reduced his heart to nothing more than a functional organ. An empty, white elephant.

Chewing, I said, “It’s okay, I guess. Every couple has its ups and downs, right?”

Belle’s eyes zipped to my half-open shoulder bag hanging from my seat. A drawing one of my students, Whitley, had made for Greta Veitch peeked from it, with the elderly woman’s name on it, surrounded by flowers and hearts.

“Does he know you still see Pax’s grandmother every week?” Belle asked.

“He found out yesterday.” I sliced a meatball with my plastic fork.

“Snap.” My sister winced. “How did you break the news?”

“I didn’t. Someone else did.”

“Who?” Ash’s cornflower eyes widened.

I didn’t know for sure, but it didn’t take a genius to put two and two together. The Arrowsmiths.

I shrugged. “Not really sure. But it’s out in the open now. He demanded I stop visiting her.”

“Bastard has no right to demand you flush the toilet after taking a dump at his place.” Belle narrowed her eyes, clearly ignoring her vow to stop trash-talking my husband after losing a poker game. “Your marriage came with a hefty price tag, and every feminist bone in your body ain’t one of them.”

“I refused him,” I said calmly.

Ash reached to rub my arm. “At least you tried.”

“And succeeded.” I brought another forkful of spaghetti to my mouth. “He backed off.”

“What?” both Belle and Ash squealed.

“Are you sure?” Aisling looked between my sister and me, her mouth hanging open. “I’ve known Kill since the day I was born and can count his losses on one hand. One finger, actually. Maybe half a finger. A pinky.”

“Positive,” I said, leaning forward and dropping my voice to a whisper. “Can I ask you a few questions, Ash?”

“Goes without saying.”

“Does Cillian have a demon fountain in his garden?”

I’d thought about that fountain since the day Hunter had pointed it out during our time at the ranch but couldn’t find it. Yesterday, while Cillian took me from behind, my eyes searched every point in his garden. My only bet was the fountain was in the small courtyard behind the garden. There was an ivy-laced door with high timber walls that seemed out of style with the rest of the garden.

“He does,” she said. “At least, he did.”

Did.

Of course.

Maybe he just tore the fountain prior to the wedding ceremony. Either way, I knew asking Cillian was futile. I was never going to get a straight answer.

“Thanks. Next question.” I cleared my throat. “Do you know what his beef with Andrew Arrowsmith is about? There seems to be buckets of bad blood between them, but your older brother isn’t the most forthcoming man of our generation.”

“Criminal understatement. You could extract more information from a garlic press.” Belle unscrewed a bottle of water, rolling her eyes. “Hashtag fact.”

“I know of Arrowsmith.” Aisling frowned, weighing her words. “There’s an age gap between Cillian and me. I was still in diapers when he and Arrowsmith were friends, but from my understanding, they were inseparable at a point. The way the story goes—mind you, I picked scraps and pieces of it from different sources and puzzled it all together in my head—Kill and Andrew were best friends from birth. They were born on the same day, at the same Boston hospital, both a little underweight. My father had met Andrew’s father while both of them were watching their newborn sons through a glass window. Shortly after, Athair had hired Andrew’s dad as an accountant for Royal Pipelines. Cillian and Andrew did everything together, and when it was time for Kill to go to Evon as per our family tradition, Athair footed half the bill and sent Andrew along with him. Kill and Andy were like brothers. Spending their summer vacations together. Riding together, having sleepovers, planning world domination side by side. Until Athair fired Andrew’s dad and sued him for all the money he’d stolen from Royal Pipelines, leaving the Arrowsmith family penniless and struggling to make ends meet. Athair cut off the cash flow to Andrew’s education, punishing the son for his father’s sins. Andrew’s dad refused to admit defeat and pull his son out of Evon the first year. He wanted to save face. The family resorted to begging their relatives for loans. Some say Andrew’s mother, Judy, became some rich guy’s plaything to keep their heads above water. Andrew’s parents divorced not long after. He dropped out of Evon the following year and moved into a tiny apartment in Southie with his mother and sister. Their lives fell apart, and so did the close friendship between Andy and Kill. The families drew an invisible line in Boston, splitting it down the middle, avoiding one another at all costs.”

Andrew knows my secret, Kill had said.

I couldn’t think of one thing that would embarrass the immaculate, flawless Cillian Fitzpatrick. But if Andrew used to be his best friend—he had access to his soul, too.

Back when he had one.

“Did Andrew try to retaliate for your father’s decision through Kill?” I asked.

Ash shook her head, hitching a shoulder up, in a beats-me kind of way.

“Mom said the one year Andrew and Cillian spent in Evon together almost cost her a son. My older brother lost a lot of weight, quit playing polo, and withdrew completely from the world. My brother has always been cold and different, but after that year, everyone agreed he’d become, well…” Ash took a deep breath, dropping her gaze to the scarred table in front of us. “Soulless.”

The word slammed into me, bursting like acid. I wanted to flip the table and its contents over and scream, he has a soul. So much soul. More than you’d ever know.

Belle passed me a drink of water, sensing the threads of my poise tattering. Andrew did something terrible to Cillian. That much I was certain of.