Page 51 of The Devil’s Lair

“What’s it about?”

I glance down at the cover. “Churchill.” I’ve no idea what made me pick it. Maybe because it had a red cover. I like red. It’s always signified strength to me.

“Which one?”

I blink. “There’s more than one?” God, I’m dumb.

“You’re holding a biography of Randolph Churchill, Winston’s only son.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “Right.”

Tobias takes his hands out of his pockets and crosses the room to settle into the chair opposite mine, his movements easy, unhurried. He smiles at Isla, who’s holding up a blue block for inspection.

“That’s brilliant, sweetheart. What are you building?”

She points at the tower, then at him.

“For me?” His face softens, and something shifts in my chest. If I wasn’t so broken, so destroyed by Marcus, I’d have melted for this man. A man who is kind to a child who isn’t his, who looks at her the way Tobias is looking at Isla, is a diamond—one to keep and treasure. Probably just as well I’m sworn off men for good, considering his sexual preferences and aversion to touch.

“Such a clever girl, Isla. I’m honored.”

She beams at him, then returns to her construction.

He turns back to me. “You’re bored.”

How is it that he can read me so well when we’re still getting to know one another? I should deny it, put on a brave face and tell him I’m fine, perfectly content to sit in this beautiful house and have staff cater to my every whim. I don’t want to add more problems to his overflowing plate.

Except I can’t lie. I spent five years pretending while I was with Marcus. I’m tired of it.

“I’m going mad,” I admit. “I’m not used to doing nothing. Marcus had particular ways when it came to the house, and making sure I adhered to them kept me busy. Here, though, you have staff to do everything. I don’t even know where the kitchen is if I want to make a sandwich. I feel like I’m a dead weight, just hanging around, taking up space.”

“You’re not taking up space. You’re recovering. And the kitchen is on the ground floor to the left of the staircase. You can’t miss it.”

“I’ve been recovering for weeks. Everyone here is so busy. At some point, I need to be something other than the tragic widow you swooped in and rescued.”

“I like the idea of swooping and rescuing.” He grins. “Let me ask you this. What did you want to be when you were younger?”

I laugh, sharp and bitter. “Where I come from, you don’t have wants. You have survival. That’s it.”

He studies me, his gaze steady. “All right. Different question.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “What do you wish you knew how to do?”

That stops me. I open my mouth, then close it again. “I… I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.”

“Well, then, now’s the time to think about it. There are no wrong answers, Rebecca. Nothing’s off limits.”

I set the book on the table beside my chair, buying myself time. What do I wish I knew how to do? I’ve spent most of my life focusing on survival, more recently on getting through each day without angering Marcus or drawing the wrong kind of attention from him. Of staying quiet, submissive, and making myself as small as possible. I’ve never considered what I enjoy or what I might like to do with the rest of my life.

“I don’t even know where to start,” I confess.

“Let’s start with what we know. You said you were waitressing when you met Marcus. Was there anything about that job you enjoyed?”

“I didn’t hate the people. Most of the customers were nice. I liked chatting with them, making them feel seen.”

He nods. “So, you’re good with people. Customer service. What else?”

I shrug helplessly. “That’s it. I left school at sixteen with a sum total of three GCSEs to my name, and they weren’t stellar grades, either. I can’t do anything.”

“You managed a household under the most trying of circumstances for five years.”