DEVYN HAS TO LEAVE.
I watch him pack a small bag and try not to feel like a clingy newlywed. Which I am. But he doesn’t need to know that.
“Hartford,” he says without looking up. “Territory business. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“The investigation?”
He pauses. Just for a moment. “Among other things.”
I don’t push.
This is growth, Bailey. This is maturity. This is you, a grown woman, respecting your husband’s boundaries and trusting that he’ll tell you what you need to know.
I want to pester him with a thousand questions.
But I don’t. See? Growth.
“There’s a function tonight,” he continues. “Cross-territory. Diplomatic. I was supposed to host, but—”
“I’ll do it.”
The words are out before I’ve fully thought them through. But once they’re in the air, I don’t want to take them back. I’m his queen. This is what queens do, right? Host things. Smile at people. Not hide in their rooms reading books about transplanted lives.
Devyn looks at me. Really looks, with those golden eyes that see too much.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” I lift my chin. “But I want to. I’m the Queen of the South. Might as well start acting like it.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile—he doesn’t give those away easily—but something warm flickers behind his eyes.
Mrs. Lyme appears in the doorway, her face pinched with worry. “Sir, about the function—if the queen is to host alone, perhaps we should consider—”
“She’s not a child.” Devyn’s voice is dismissive. Final. “She can handle it.”
Mrs. Lyme’s mouth opens, then closes. She nods once and retreats.
I should feel bolstered by his confidence. And I do. Mostly.
But there’s a tiny, stupid part of me that wishes he’d been just a little more concerned. A little more reluctant to leave me alone with a room full of wolves.
Stop it, Bailey. He trusts you. That’s a good thing.
I straighten my shoulders. “I’m not a child. I can handle it.”
Devyn’s mouth curves. Just barely. “I know.”
He crosses the room to me. Cups my face in his hands. Studies me like he’s memorizing every detail—the shape of my eyes, thecurve of my mouth, the single dimple that only shows when I really smile.
My pulse kicks up.
“Then why,” I manage, “do you look like you’re planning something?”
“I’m always planning something.”
His gaze drops to my mouth.
Tenth time. I’m still counting.
