Page 185 of Ruthless Claim

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I fork some more food, enjoying that I can finally eat without wanting to vomit.

“Uh huh.” His eyes gleam with amusement. “And the takeout containers in the trash?”

My cheeks go warm, but I keep my face perfectly composed. Dammit, I should have taken the trash downstairs. “Circumstantial evidence.”

Cillian bursts into laughter, and the sound of it makes my body feel warm. He hasn’t laughed much since “Claire” disappeared, and I didn’t realize until this exact moment how much I’ve missed it. The weight of what had happened—of how close we’d come to losing everything—had settled over both of us like a shadow.

But slowly, we’re finding our way back to each other.

“Eat your food,” I tell him, a bit annoyed that he found me out, even though it was my fault for being lazy and not disposing of the evidence

“Your food,” he says, smiling at me. “That you definitely cooked.”

“Cillian.”

“It’s incredible, by the way.” He picks his fork back up, still smiling. “Really. The plating alone is to die for.”

I throw a piece of bread at his head. He catches it and eats it without breaking eye contact, which is the most infuriating possible response. I have to look away so he doesn’t see me smile.

After dinner we end up on the couch. I tuck myself into his side with his arm around my shoulders and my hand on the curve of my belly.

He covers my hand with his without saying anything, his thumb moving in a slow arc, and I snuggle into him.

The city hums outside and I let myself relax for a moment, enjoying my husband’s presence.

“Have you thought about names?” he asks, his rough cheek pressing against my head.

I shrug. “A few. Nothing definitive.”

“I’m still leaning toward Fergus.”

This time I lean back and stare at him in shock. “Absolutely not. Try again.”

“Come on, Valentina. It’s a strong name.”

“You’ve lost your damn mind.” I settle back against his chest. “Fergus Gabriel Brennan? That sounds horrible.”

“We’re using Gabriel as a middle name?” Cillian asks suddenly. “When did we decide that?”

“I decided it since I’m the one carrying your child,” I gesture to my belly. “Gabriel for a boy. Gabrielle for a girl. My brother should be honored with a child named after him, since he’ll never have his own.”

Cillian hums. “And you choosing Gabriel had nothing to do with the fact that it would piss Connor off, right?”

A smirk grows on my lips, and I hide my face in Cillian’s shoulder so he doesn’t see it and realize he’s correct. Obviously, honoring my brother means a lot to me, but I won’t lie—it will be satisfying as hell to see Connor’s face when he hears the baby’s name.

“Other than Fergus, which we are never discussing again,” I say, changing the subject, “do you have any actual preferences?”

Cillian pokes my side, as if letting me know he knows what I’m doing but he’ll play along. “I like strong names,” he says. “Names with history and weight to them.”

“Like Cillian?”

He looks down at me and the corner of his mouth pulls up. “Exactly like Cillian. Clearly the finest name ever bestowed upon a human being.”

I roll my eyes, pinching his side. “Your ego is showing.”

“My ego has always been showing. You just like it.”

He’s not wrong, which is irritating. I settle back against his chest and listen to his heartbeat, steady and familiar under my cheek, closing my eyes.