Page 22 of The Duke's Sinful Bride

Killian said nothing in return, merely continuing to eat as though he hadn’t heard her, leaving no room for further conversation.

Yvette’s gaze shifted to Maisie. She smiled softly, hoping to draw the little girl out of her shell.

“So, Maisie,” she began gently, “can you tell me a little about what you learned today?”

The child’s fork paused midway to her mouth as her wide gray eyes darted between her father and Yvette, as if seeking permission. The hesitation stretched, making Yvette’s smile falter just a little, however she remained patient.

Then, as though something had just occurred to the little girl, her brows shot up, and her gaze snapped to Yvette.

“You are Papa’s wife,” Maisie said, her voice curious, her tone completely guileless. “Do I have to call you mama, now?”

Yvette froze mid-motion, her fork suspended just above her plate. Her breath hitched as the words landed heavily between them, and her chest felt tight, as if the very air had thickened.

Slowly, she set her utensil down and placed a hand lightly on her chest, willing the knot in her throat to ease.

Before she could answer, Killian’s deep voice cut through the silence.

“Yes,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Yvette’s head snapped toward him, her eyes narrowing in disbelief.

“No,” she said immediately, turning back to Maisie with a small smile, “You don’t have to call me mama, Maisie. Only if you want to.”

Killian’s frown darkened, his fork clattering onto his plate as he sat back in his chair, arms crossing over his broad chest.

“Maisie is to call ye mama,” he said, his brogue thickening with the simmering edge of his frustration. “It’s proper, and she should learn respect for her new mother.”

Yvette’s lips parted in astonishment, her scowl deepening. “Proper?” she echoed incredulously. “You cannot just force something like this on her—or me, for that matter.”

“She’s my daughter,” he shot back, his voice low and taut. “And ye are my wife. Ye wish to see us as a family, then Maisie must address you properly.”

Yvette’s pulse quickened, anger curling low in her stomach. “A family?” she repeated, her voice rising slightly. “You think a title will magically make us one? You think forcing her to call me something she doesn’t feel will make everything perfect?”

“It is not about perfection,” Killian growled, leaning forward, his hands braced against the edge of the table. “It is about setting a standard. Ye want her to accept ye, don’t ye? Then she would call ye that.”

Yvette pushed her chair back slightly, her spine stiffening as she met his piercing gaze.

“I am doing everything I can to connect with Maisie, but I won’t do it this way. Not if it means pushing her too hard. And frankly,you are making things harder by dictating how this is supposed to go.”

Killian’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists on the table. His eyes burned in such a way that they made Yvette’s skin prickle.

“If ye think I am the one making things harder, perhaps ye should look in the mirror,” he snapped.

“And perhaps you should take your own advice,” she retorted, her cheeks flushing as the tension between them became almost unbearable.

The room felt stifling, the air charged with unspoken words and a heat that had little to do with anger.

Killian’s gaze flicked to her lips for the briefest moment before snapping back to her eyes, and Yvette’s breath hitched, her stomach twisting in confusion at the raw intensity in his expression.

“You are impossible,” she muttered, her voice breaking the silence, though her tone lacked the bite it had moments ago.

“And ye drive me mad,” he growled.

For a fleeting second, it seemed as though he might say more, but then, as if catching himself, he abruptly stood, the scrape of his chair against the floor cutting through the charged moment.

“Finish up your meal, Maisie. Then off to bed with you,” he said, his tone still stern but softened for his daughter.

Killian stepped inside the duchess’ chambers.

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