Keep Me (Sinful Manor #1)

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

I snatch my scarf from my closet and throw it around my neck. As I emerge from my room, I hear another door closing down the hall and look up to find Killian standing just two doors down.

We both pause and stare at each other for a moment. It’s rare that we end up at the same place at the same time anymore, but when we do, it’s always a little unsettling. His wild green eyes bore into mine for a moment.

“Where are you going?” he asks after his eyes rake down my body, noticing my winter boots.

“Into town to do some shopping,” I reply.

He doesn’t respond, only stares at me. So I casually add, “Wanna come?”

There’s a flinch in his expression. Then he shakes his head. “Fuck no.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask, taking a step toward him. “Afraid of a little shopping?”

He tilts his head and gives me an unamused expression. His hair is pulled half into a bun at the back of his head, and I notice the rest falls past his shoulders. For some reason, I find myself reaching out to brush it with my fingers.

“You need a haircut,” I say.

His eyes follow my fingers and then settle on my face, probably as confused as I am as to why I would touch it.

Naturally, he reaches out and tugs on one of my unruly curls. “So do you.”

“Want to give each other haircuts?” I ask with a playful tone.

What is happening right now?

He gives an uneasy chuckle. Even he’s confused. We’re standing here teasing each other in a casual conversation without slinging insults. I think finding that book yesterday has somehow morphed my perception of Killian. I’m not exactly sure how. It’s almost like curiosity has overpowered the hatred.

“Okay, well…if you’re sure you don’t want to come…” I awkwardly head toward the stairs, and I swear I spot a hint of hesitation on his face.

For the first time in three months, I almost feel bad for leaving him here alone.

“Have fun,” he mutters, leaving his back to me as I walk down the stairs toward the front door, where Peter, the driver, is waiting for me.

I carry that feeling of guilt with me during the entire drive into the city. And even as I shop, it’s there. Nothing interests me. There’s a street full of stores and restaurants, and along the center of the pedestrian road are stalls selling holiday things like baked goods and ornaments.

I was never much for Christmas back home. New York City makes it hard not to feel the spirit though. But this is different. There’s no Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, but there is something more quaint and comforting.

After coming out of a clothing store, I stop at one of the stalls. It’s handcrafted leather goods, purses, belts, and other things. My eyes catch on a very large pair of brown leather gloves. The leather is soft, and I pick them up, letting my fingers graze the surface.

I think about Killian’s hands. I remember the weight of them as they rested in mine on our wedding day. And then again that night, bandaging the open gash across his palm.

Then I feel them around my arm—and around my waist.

It’s a memory, but it’s burnt into my mind like an iron brand. I can still remember how they felt as they pinned my hands to the bed. So much larger than mine. Capable of so much, but never used harshly against me. Even when he held me back, there was care in his strength.

“Would you like to buy those, dear?” the woman behind the booth asks.

I press my open hand to the gloves, noticing the size difference. The long fingers dwarf my tiny thin ones.

“Yes, please,” I murmur as I look at her with a smile. Reaching into my purse, I pull out my wallet and hand her two bills to cover it. “Keep the change.”

“Thank you,” she replies sweetly. Then she offers me a bag for the gloves. “Happy Christmas, dear.”

“Happy Christmas,” I mutter in response.

The gloves don’t replace the guilt still souring my insides. What the hell has gotten into me? Why would I feel bad for coming into town? It’s not like he really wanted to come. If he wanted to, he could have said so. I literally asked.

Besides, he wouldn’t want to come with me . I’m sure someday Killian will be able to get over his fear of leaving the house, and it will probably be to attend a rugby match with his uni friends. It certainly wouldn’t be for shopping with an American girl he can’t stand.

“Sylvie?” I glance up from the cobblestone ground to see a familiar woman standing near a storefront.

“Claire,” I reply with hesitation.

As she smiles at me and crosses the passing crowd to hug me, I quickly try to decipher how I’m supposed to feel about this woman. Because my natural reaction is that I think she’s a lying, cheating home-wrecker who tried to fuck my husband. But Killian is not really my husband, and that’s not really my home.

Still, I hate her.

When she pulls away from our quick hug, she holds my shoulders and gives me a cheesy grin. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” I reply, unable to meet her level of forced enthusiasm.

“How’s Killian?” she asks, and my smile fades.

“He’s fine,” I mutter without emotion.

“Good.” She draws out the response, clearly gauging my reaction to her speaking his name.

She has to know I don’t like her. Why play these fake games? I caught her in the hallway with him. I heard the way she pulled him into the closet that night. I also know she didn’t have him in there long enough for them to do anything—which means he turned her down—because of the contract, of course.

She doesn’t know that though. In her mind, she must think that he loves me more, and that gives me a sense of smug pride.

“He’s not with you today?” she asks, her eyes grazing the crowd.

My molars grind. “No. He stayed home.” I emphasize the word home . Our home.

“Are you busy?” she asks. “We should grab a drink.”

I don’t want to grab a drink with this woman, but I do want to hear what she has to say to me. My curiosity always gets the better of me.

“That sounds great,” I lie with a fake smile.

She leads the way as we walk down to a nearby pub. Once we enter, we hang our coats and scarves on the hook next to the door. Then we find an empty table and sit across from each other. The bartender brings us each a beer, and I keep Killian’s gloves at my side.

We make small talk for a while. Claire tells me about her job in restaurant management. I tell her a little about my life in New York and how I’m working on a novel—that I haven’t touched in over a year.

When there’s a lull in our conversation, I feel her ready to pounce on a more scandalous topic.

“So…” Claire says after taking a drink. “I heard a dirty little rumor about you and Killian.”

I take a long sip of my beer, waiting for her to elaborate.

“That you two like to…share. Is that true?”

I set down my beer and press my lips together. I know exactly why she’s asking me this. She’s testing me to see how much power she can use against me. It takes everything in me not to explode on this woman and call her out for being the meddling bitch that she is. Instead, I reply softly.

“You know…you can’t trust rumors.”

She laughs. “Surely, there’s some truth to that one though.”

“There’s not.” My answer is clipped. I meet her gaze, and while her expression is playful and happy, mine is cold and ruthless.

“Okay,” she says with a laugh. “I was just asking.”

“I’m sure you were,” I reply. “Just curious, right?”

Her brows lift and her smile fades. “Did I do something wrong?”

I take another sip, letting her sit with that question for a moment, hoping it tortures her, waiting for the answer.

Deep down, I know I shouldn’t care if she did try to sleep with Killian. It’s none of my business…

Except it is. Because he is legally my husband, and if she did manage to fuck him that night, she could have cost me ten million dollars.

All of that aside…she tried to seduce my husband.

“You know, Claire…” I say, trying to keep my cool. “You may not be able to trust rumors, but you can trust your gut. And my gut is telling me that you tried to fuck my husband that weekend at my house.”

“Sylvie—” she snaps, glancing around to see if anyone heard.

“My gut also tells me that you’ve fucked Killian in the past, probably when you were already married to Angus.”

She leans forward, and I notice the tremble in her breath. “Stop it.”

But I don’t. The more I think about it, the more I’m starting to realize something. “Let me guess,” I say with a tilt of my head. “Your little affair wasn’t part of that kinky swinger shit you guys do at the parties?”

Her eyes half shut, which tells me I must be right.

“He told you about that?” she whispers.

“Killian is dealing with his own shit,” I snap. “He doesn’t need you fucking with his head even more.”

Killian doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would screw his friend’s wife. At least not without feeling like shit about it. Is that the prison he’s locked himself in? One made of remorse and regret?

“It wasn’t just my fault, you know?” she replies. “He’s just as responsible as I am. I feel terrible for what I’ve done, and I’m paying for it with my own guilt.”

That part pulls me out of my thought process. “Oh yes, so much guilt that you tried to screw him again?”

“Will you please keep your voice down?” she whispers angrily.

When I feel the curious stares from around the pub, I shrink down and keep quiet. Normally, I wouldn’t care about attracting attention, but this isn’t about me. This is his business, and the more people seem to meddle in it, the more fired up I seem to get.

I take another drink of my beer, desperate to calm my nerves.

“You know…” she says, scratching the back of her neck. “You’re not at all what I expected for Killian. You two are so alike; I can’t imagine how you’re compatible.”

“We’re not that alike,” I argue. That comment caught me off guard. I’m nothing like Killian. He’s brash, rude, and inconsiderate.

When Claire doesn’t respond, I swallow and look away.

“What? You think you’re so much better for him?” I ask.

“I know what he needs,” she replies smugly, and my blood starts to boil again.

“Oh yeah? And what is it he needs?” I’m asking to be defiant, but I’m also a little curious.

She rests her arms on the table and leans forward. “Killian doesn’t need some headstrong brat who is going to make everything difficult for him. He needs someone who puts their trust in him. Someone who will let him have control and be the dominant man he is.”

My face contorts into a sneer. I would never force myself to be something I’m not just because it’s what he needs . But the more I let her opinion settle in my mind, the more wrong it feels.

“You don’t know him at all,” I reply.

She scoffs. “And you do? You’ve known him for what? Three months? If you think kinky swinger parties were the extent of it, then you don’t know a damn thing.”

Suddenly, I feel very confident that I know Killian far better than she does, even if she has known him for ten years. Hell, at this point, I feel like I might know him better than his own family. Maybe because he isn’t afraid to be himself around me. He shows me the ugly parts—the parts he won’t let anyone else see. I see when he’s scared and frustrated and lonely and angry. All they see are fake smiles and rehearsed fronts.

I grab the bag, holding the leather gloves off the seat. The sudden desperation to be out of this pub and out of this city is overpowering. I just want to go home.

Standing up in a huff, I lean down toward Claire and force out everything on my mind, no matter how irrational it is.

“You don’t know him, because if you did, you would know that’s not what he needs at all. Killian doesn’t need more control. He blames himself too much for that. What he needs is someone he can trust . Someone who will take away the decisions and the burden of having to make them. Someone he can truly let go with.”

She lets out a sarcastic chuckle. “And you think that’s you?”

I inch closer. “I know it is.”

When her face flattens in anger, I resist the urge to throw the rest of her beer in her face or punch her in the nose. The old Sylvie might have done that, but I refrain. As much as I’d love to lash out at this cheater the same way I lashed out at Aaron, I don’t.

Instead, I stand up tall and stare down at her.

“If you touch my husband again, I’ll kill you.”

Her eyes widen in surprise. And with that, I storm out of the pub, grabbing my coat and scarf on the way.

I realize as I march angrily into the now-dark city streets that threatening murder might not be a huge improvement in maturity from throwing drinks at her like a child, but it is an improvement nonetheless. And for that, I’m sort of proud.