She looked up.
The word 'wives' had arrived.
Specifically: 'wives.' Plural. The specific plural of the word as it related to this man in the context of what had just been inside her and what she was currently holding and what the afternoon had been.
Her jaw clenched.
"'...Wives.'" The word came out flat. Compressed. "'As in—more than one.'"
"'Several.'"
Her grip tightened slightly. Not intentionally.
"'What man,'" she said—slowly, each word placed with the careful precision of a woman who is very close to losing access to her indoor voice—"'marries several women.'"
He reached up.
Found her chin with two fingers. Tilted her face toward his.
"'Me,'" he said.
Simple. Clean. The single syllable of a man who has answered this question in several territories and considers it settled.
She looked at him from between his two fingers at her jaw.
"'...You bastard.'"
"'Mm.'"
