She twisted in his hold. Both of his hands moved to tighten around her. He did not let her go. Breath heaving, Delaney fumed, “I think you’re having trouble with the meaning of don’t get hurt for me. Don’t risk your life for me. Don’t?—”
“My brother was shot. You were sliced with a knife and stuffed in a closet. If you think this isn’t personal for me, you’re dead wrong.”
“Put me down.”
He turned away from the window and walked across the suite. He did not put her down. His hold did tighten.
“Nash.” Anger hummed in his name.
He took her past the small den area. Into the bedroom. A massive bed waited. One with black, silk sheets that had been turned down. Red rose petals dotted the floor and lead toward the bed. Champagne chilled on a bedside table, while soft, classical music played from a small device beside the champagne flutes.
A room for romance. A perfect suite for a couple in love.
But they weren’t in love. They weren’t a real couple.
“When you’re involved,” he bit out, “it’s always personal for me.” Then he finally put her down. Right in the middle of the bed. Her body slid over the silk sheets. His hands slid over her. Lingered on her, before he jerked them back. His fingers fisted at his sides even as he took a step back. “You are personal. You’re my wife.”
A lock of hair had tumbled over her cheek. She shoved it back. “Pretend wife.”
He looked away.
“Where did you get the ring?” Delaney asked as she remembered all that Ryan had told her.
“Jezebel had the wedding bands for us.” He yanked his phone from his pocket and tossed it onto the small nightstand. “She sent me the bands.”
Jezebel. Someone they may not be able to trust. “I’m not talking about the gold bands. I’m talking about the engagement ring. The one with my pearl birthstone on it.”
His stare shot back to her.
“Where did you get it?”
“A jewelry store.”
Hardly an enlightening answer. So she’d just ask a different question. “When?”
“You don’t want to know. Stop asking these questions.”
The hell she would. “If I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t ask!” Her legs dangled over the side of the bed. A very high bed. “When did you get the engagement ring?”
He surged forward. His hands slapped down on either side of her. “Eight years ago.”
It was a good thing she was sitting on the bed. “Liar.”
“The only thing I’ve ever lied about…fuck it. It’s not loving you. When I said we were done, when I said I didn’t care—I fucking lied.”
She felt those words drive straight in her heart.
“I had the ring eight years ago. I wanted to marry you. I wanted to grow old with you. I wanted to live until we were old and gray and be in a freaking rocking chair watching our grandkids play.”
Why didn’t you? Why. Didn’t. You? The words were caught in her throat as pain ravaged her.
“But…” His jaw clenched. He shoved away from the bed. “That wasn’t meant to be. You had a life to live. I had to walk away.”
She grabbed his arm. “Why?”
“You don’t want to know.”
She jumped to her feet. Their bodies brushed. Anger crackled in the air between them. “If I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t have asked! You just put yourself between me and bullets. You kept an engagement ring for eight years. Those are not the actions of a man who does not care.” Her hands locked around his powerful upper arms. She wanted to shake him. “Tell me why. I deserve to know why.”
