Spoiler: it’s me.
I lean forward and rest my elbows on the desk, steepling my fingers. The frustration and anger coursing through me requires an outlet, but one isn’t available to me at this moment. The restlessness is unbearable. I concentrate and summon the discipline that’s kept me alive all these years, the same restraint that keeps me from fucking Delilah until she’s fully healed.
Even then, I’ve almost lost control on several occasions. How much longer am I supposed to look at her without touching her? Meanwhile, her foster brother has, and it makes me want to kill him.
What the fuck were they talking about before he kissed her? More importantly, did she encourage him?
I grit my teeth, recalling how he put his arm around her and the way he looked at her. Like she’s the air he breathes. I’ve seen that look before. It’s on my face every time I’m with Delilah.
It takes me the rest of the day to calm down enough to head back to my room where my bride waits for me. She sits on the bed, her nose in a book. My anger ebbs away but doesn’t completely dissipate. It’s there, lurking under the surface, waiting for me to lose control and let it take over.
When I approach her, she looks up and gives me a cool smile, oblivious to the fact that I’m close to strangling her or spanking her. Mmm... both would be nice.
“How was your day, bride?”
She shrugs, the casual gesture drawing my attention to her breasts. When she catches me staring unabashedly, her cheeks redden, and she drops her gaze. “It was okay. Nothing special. Raven and I had a nice walk. What about you?”
“I went to my classes.”
“Anything interesting happen?”
I quirk a brow in challenge. “I could ask you the same.”
“What do you mean?”
“How was your visit with McKenzie?”
Her gaze widens infinitesimally, revealing her unease. “Fine. We walked around and had a nice chat. He asked me how I’m feeling.”
My girl doesn’t bother to ask me how I know about this interaction. Even if she doesn’t know the logistics, Delilah finally understands the lengths I’m willing to go to keep her safe. And keep her as mine.
“He’s really concerned about my recovery,” she says.
I scoff. “I’m sure he is.”
She doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she picks up her discarded book and buries her face in it. I’d call her a coward, but that’s the furthest thing from the truth. Usually, my girl is fierce and ready to throw sarcasm my way, so what gives?
“What did he say to you?”
She pretends to ignore me, but her pulse quickens underneath the skin of her neck, and her eyes no longer glide over the page.
“Tell me, bride.”
She slams the book closed and sets it down before crossing her arms. I drag my gaze along her body, taking my time to appreciate the shape of her legs and her curves. When my eyes return to her face, her cheeks are red.
“It’s nothing,” she says.
From one blink to the next, I’m straddling her on the bed, still mindful of her wound. With her wrists pinned on either side of her hips, her palms sinking into the mattress, she gazes up at me, her breath rushing in and out of her lungs.
“That’s not an answer.” I narrow my eyes at her, my frustration reaching an all-time high, my control about to snap. “What the fuck did he say to you?”
She lifts her chin, the defiant action matching the blaze in her eyes. “He told me about Saturday.”
“What about Saturday?”
“You tell me.”
“What’s happening this weekend doesn’t concern you.”
