Page 13 of The Marriage Debt

He exhales a long, shaky breath that lets me know he’s still not convinced, but maybe he wants to be. His fingers curl around the fabric of my shirt. He stays like that for a while longer, pressed to me, breathing shallowly, chest still catching on the tail end of a cry.

When he finally falls asleep, I don’t move right away. I just lie there, staring up at the ceiling, wondering how the hell we ended up here. I can’t tell if this is better or just a different kind of broken. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, my father would say, but it feels more like out of the fire and into the fucking volcano.

Signing those papers felt like signing my death warrant. I shouldn’t have come here or let Rafe browbeat me into getting into his car. This house is a veritable fortress with armed guards and security cameras everywhere. There's no way in hell I'm getting out with Lev at my side unless I fight my way out, and that means death. It feels hopeless.

Eventually, I carry him back to his room, careful not to wake him. I tuck him in, smooth the hair from his eyes, and stay for a few minutes to be sure the nightmares don’t come back.

I don’t sleep.

Even after Lev is back in his bed and the house settles again, my body won’t relax. My mind won’t either. I lie there for a while, staring at the ceiling, listening to the stillness pressing in around me like it’s trying to suffocate the thoughts I can’t stop thinking.

Eventually, I get up. The robe is still draped over the foot of the bed, but I don’t bother with it. The air is cool, but not cold enough to chill me. I take the stairs up to the terrace. I don’t expect anyone to be there—certainly not him. But as soon as I push the door open, I see him standing near the edge. He doesn’t turn when I step out.

Mateo has a drink in one hand, his back to me, suit jacket discarded somewhere out of sight. The wind moves just enough to ruffle his shirt at the collar. He’s perfectly still otherwise, eyes fixed on the city below like it might shift if he watches it long enough.

I walk toward him, slow, quiet steps on stone. I stop a few feet away, arms folded.

“You have a habit of lurking in the dark,” I say.

He doesn’t answer right away, just lifts the glass to his mouth and finishes whatever’s left.

“I could say the same about you,” he says finally without looking at me.

I stare at the back of his head for a few seconds, considering whether or not to speak again. My shoulders are still tense after standing in front of that officiant signing those documents. I was wrong about Mateo. He's not as bad as Anton. He's worse than Anton. At least my dead husband would've told me what I was going to be forced to do before he forced me to do it.

“You lied to me about the custody hearing,” I say. “About the marriage. About everything.”

“You didn’t ask,” he replies.

“And you didn’t offer.”

This time he turns just his head, slowly and deliberately, until his eyes are on me. There’s nothing apologetic in them, just quiet, exact calculation.

“You weren’t going to win,” he says. “Your mother has money, a legal team, and a reputation you gave up the second you got pregnant with Anton’s son. If I hadn’t intervened, she would’ve buried you in court. You know it.”

“I don’t care what you think you saved me from,” I snap. “You’re still treating me like I’m a guest in a life that used to be mine.”

“I’m treating you like someone who has a responsibility,” he says, “to the boy you claim to protect.”

“Don’t you dare judge how I protect him.” I'm seething, skin bristling against the night air now. But I'm too angry to be cold. My arms fold across my chest indignantly, and his eyes flick down to my chest briefly.

“Then don’t make it so easy to question.”

The words land with enough force to hit something raw. I don’t know if it’s the way he says them or the fact that they come from him, of all people. I feel my body react before I fully think it through. My hand lifts and flies toward his cheek.

This time, he’s ready.

He catches my wrist with the same speed and precision as before, but before I can make connection with his face. His grip is tight, but not cruel.

“If you’re looking for a fight,” he says, voice low, controlled, “pick someone who won’t finish it.”

He doesn’t let go.

And I don’t pull away.

The wind moves around us, cooler now. My chest rises and falls too fast, but I don’t step back. His hand is still wrapped around my wrist, and I can feel my pulse thudding under his fingers. I hate that I notice. I hate that I don’t want to move.

I hate the look in his eyes—like he sees all of it and isn’t the least bit surprised. We stare at each other in silence, breathing harder than we should be. My chest is tight. My mouth’s dry. There’s something sharp in the space between us, something that’s not anger but sits close enough to it that I can’t tell the difference anymore.

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