Page 75 of The Devil’s Lair

I can’t look at him. I can’t look at anyone. My pulse rages, my heart striking my ribcage with painful beats. “No governess,” I grit out. “Ever.”

“Tobias, it’s okay.” Rebecca’s voice, small and tinged with fear, cuts through the jumble of thoughts careening through my mind. “We can talk about it.”

“No talk. It’s not fucking happening.” I whip away from the table and stride from the room. Hushed conversation follows me, fading fast as I take off up the stairs. I lurch into my apartment, palms slick with sweat. Bracing my hands on my knees, I fight for every breath.

What the fuck just happened?

Chapter Twenty-Three

REBECCA

Stunned silence hovers in the air, thick with shock. I should be scared. Tobias’s out of character outburst is reminiscent of one of Marcus’s abrupt rage tantrums. Except when I think about what happened, it’s not the same at all. Both men were angry, but unless I’m way off base, Tobias’s came from a place of fear. Not for himself. For Isla. The source of that fear is unknown, but it was real to him.

“I’ll go and talk to him.” Christian’s already halfway to the exit.

“No.” I jump to my feet. “I’ll go. I’m his wife.” For the first time, I feel like I am. A real wife, not simply the battered woman he’s saved more than once. I’ve felt the shift in our relationship, a slow crawl to something different. I’ve no idea what to call it. We’re not the same people we were when we agreed to marry, that’s for sure.

My first port of call is to check on Isla. The baby monitor Imogen suggested as a way to help me feel comfortable moving around this colossal mansion without Isla Velcroed to my side has worked, although my heart doesn’t properly settle until I’ve seen she’s safe with my own eyes.

Careful not to make a sound, I push open the door to her bedroom. She’s sleeping on her own now. Tobias even had builders put in a connecting door between Isla’s bedroom and mine to make us both feel secure. He’s always thinking of us, making sure we’re okay. Now it’s my turn to do the same for him.

In true Isla fashion, one arm is casually flung over her head, and her quilt’s hanging off the bed. I fix it, spend a few seconds gazing at her sleeping form, then press a kiss to her forehead and slowly back away before I pad down the hallway toward Tobias’s rooms.

I’ve never been in here, only in the communal living room he shares with Christian and Saskia. He may not be here. This place is vast, and if he doesn’t want to be found, I’m guessing there are dozens of hiding places where he can ensure he gets alone time.

Making a fist, I knock twice. I swear I hear someone moving inside. I knock again. “Tobias, it’s me. Please open the door.”

A few seconds pass, then the door opens. He looks wretched, hair askew, his tie discarded and the top two buttons undone on his shirt. He’s removed his jacket, too, and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. I try not to stare at those veiny forearms. It isn’t easy.

“Hey,” I begin gently. “Can I come in?”

Without saying a word, he stands back and, once I’m inside, he pushes the door closed. His personal living room is warm and inviting, with a corner couch that’s built for comfort, and a dozen colorful scatter cushions lined along the back and sides. Heavy, dark curtains frame large windows, allowing the moon to shine through. There’s a fireplace, although there’s no fire burning in the grate. It’s warm enough in here not to need one. A huge TV with separate speakers is built into the wall, and there’s a large, framed photograph of Tobias with a man I don’t recognize.

“Who’s that?” I point to the photograph.

“Sachin Tendulkar.”

I frown. “None the wiser.”

“Legendary cricketer. Also happens to be a great human off the field, too.”

“I don’t know anything about cricket.”

His nostrils flare as he expels a heavy breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry I don’t know anything about cricket?”

The beginnings of a smile pull at one corner of his mouth. “My jokey persona is rubbing off on you.” He winces. “Goddammit.” He rakes both hands through his hair. That explains the way it’s stuck at all angles. He must have been doing that repeatedly since he stormed from the dining room.

“I’m here if you want to talk. Or we can just sit. Whatever you prefer.”

“I’d prefer not to have made a gigantic fool of myself.” He shrugs. “Guess that ship has sailed.”

“You didn’t make a fool of yourself.”

“Tell that to my family. Think that’s the first time I’ve ever yelled at a family dinner. They probably all need a defibrillator.” He flashes a grin.

Jokes. He hides his pain behind jokes. It’s something I’ve long suspected, but it’s obvious now.