“You’ve not finished, love,” he prompted, tightening his grip enough to make her gasp.

“I said you were pigheaded.” She whimpered in anticipation, her own hands bringing him closer.

“You’ve cried off the most important, wife,” he accused, lowering her to the floor. “Now tell me,” he hissed. “Who am I?”

“You are my very own overlord,” she said at last, their conversation forgotten as her husband won the battle she started.

The battle she had purposely started.

Gwen stood just beyond the door of her husband’s study. She paced back and forth, wringing her hands. Greylen had been right; she sucked at keeping secrets. She wanted to tell him what she’d been hiding, but she couldn’t seem to get the man alone. He and his men were sitting around the table, crossing off dates on a piece of paper, and laughing as they called out dibs on future ones. She listened for a few more minutes.

Crap! They were laughing at her.

“What’s this?” Gwen asked, stepping into the room.

Greylen sighed, sitting back in his chair as he looked to the door. He picked up the paper and held it before him. “This is a calendar, Gwendolyn,” he explained like he was speaking to a two-year-old. “It’s a sequence of numbers we call weeks, which comprise another sequence of numbers called months, which in turn leads us to yet another sequence of numbers which comprise a ye—”

“I know what a frigging calendar is!”

“Then why did you ask?” Her husband looked as though he was having trouble keeping a straight face.

Gwen’s hands fisted. “I’ll ask you again—what are you doing?”

“We’re marking days, love,” he answered in obvious exasperation before he continued. “It’s usually what one does when working with a calendar.”

“You’re betting on something,” she said through clenched teeth, his smug tone infuriating her. “And I want to know what.”

“Betting?” he asked innocently.

Her eyes narrowed. “Betting, you imbecile. Now answer me.” He remained silent, so she marched to the table and yanked the paper from his hand. Their names were scrawled over each of the days, amounts of coins written beneath them and doubling as the days progressed. She looked at Kevin, snorting in disgust as she shook her head. He lied easily, then she realized she was completely screwed. Every frigging one of them lied easily. Resigned, she picked Ian, the lesser of seven evils. “Ian, what’s this about?” she demanded.

Ian turned beet red, looking to Greylen for help. Her husband remained silent. “They’re days we’ve chosen, lady.”

“Thank you, Ian,” she ground out through her teeth. “I never would have guessed. What does it mean?”

“Gwen, come now, love—”

“Don’t ‘Gwen, come now, love’ me,” she snapped.

Greylen scoffed, waving his hand over the paper. “’Tis just a simple wager.”

“A simple wager on what?” she asked again.