Page 67 of 10 Days to Surrender

Her fingers drag through the damp ring my glass left on the bar. “You left before I could say?—”

“Don’t.”

“—thank you.”

I freeze.

“For taking me to Siena,” she says softly. “And also, for… caring enough to fight me on it.”

I throw back more of the drink. “It’s not care; it’s logistics. Healthy mother, healthy heirs. Simple math.”

“Oh, don’t give me that shit, Sasha.” Her eye-roll is scathing. But then she sighs and some of the tension goes whistling out of her. “There is some math to it, though. I’ve been… thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

“About our situation.”

I arch a brow, though I still refuse to turn to face her. Her knee presses into my thigh, warm and deliberate. I don’t move. Don’t breathe. The grappa turns to acid in my gut as her fingers come to rest on my forearm.

“We’re adults,” she continues, voice pitched low. “We want each other. Why complicate it with feelings? That’s math, right? Subtract out the feelings. Add in the sex.”

Maybe I’ve had too much to drink after all. “You thinkfuckingwill fix us?”

“I think it’ll make the next ten weeks bearable, if nothing else.”

“What happened to hating me and everything I’ve ever done?”

“Hate’s a strong word,” she demurs.

“So is love. But we’ve already proven how well that one works out.” Her hand is still touching my arm. Five little points of contact that feel like fishhooks in my skin. I shake my head and pull away. “You’re either delusional or fucking with me. This can only end in disaster, Ariel. It can’t be what you want.”

“I want release.” Her eyes burn, bright and level. “You want a distraction. Seems fair.”

My scar tingles. “And the babies?”

“—are currently the size of eggplants and very uninterested in our sex lives.” She leans in, peach-vanilla shampoo drowning out the grappa stench.

Ariel has one thing down cold: The math is simple. Ten weeks of fucking versus fifty years of longing for what once was. Ten weeks of her nails down my back versus a lifetime of cold sheets and colder what-ifs.

I drain the glass and turn to seize her by the wrist, just shy of bruising, so she knows this isn’t a joke.

“If we’re going to play with fire, we need rules,” I growl. “No feelings. No sleeping over. No…” My thumb passes over the hickey I left last night. “…marks.”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Deal.”

“And when it’s done…”

“We’re done.” She nods. “Scout’s honor. It’s a hate-fuck for convenience’s sake. It’ll never be anything more than that.”

The owner chooses that exact moment to shuffle back in from his smoke break outside, clearing his throat. “Signori, we are?—”

A wad of my euros smacks his chest. He fumbles the catch, blinking at the bills fluttering down to his sawdust floors.

“Get out,” I bark.

It does not require translation.

He scurries away, still clutching my money. The door’s rusted bolt screeches when I slam it home behind him. Windows next—every latch twisted until my palm bleeds. Behind me, Ariel’s breath stutters.

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