Though how he thought I wouldn’t focus that on my husband, after a lifetime of lessons about my duties in marriage, I can’t imagine. He sees Connor as an extension of himself, though, a pawn to advance his own ambitions, and that frightens me.
I know one thing about my husband—he’s no one’s pawn. Not even mine—and certainly not my father’s.
“Do you think it was an accident? Or something else—” The words come out before I can think about them, my gut twisting into knots at the idea that someone might have set the fire on purpose, but my father fixes me with a stern glare.
“That’s not your concern. Go see to your husband. I’ll be fine—I’ll head home in a moment. My car is here.”
My husband doesn’t want me toseeto him, I want to retort, but I don’t. My father doesn’t need to know about the trouble in our marriage or that Connor barely wanted to speak to me. He’d blame it on me anyway, some failing of mine, give me some advice about what I need to do differently to please Connor.
Instead, I smile wanly at him, reaching down to squeeze his hand before striding away towards the car. I don’t look at Niall, or Connor, or anyone else. I want to be alone in the cool darkness of the town car while I wait on Connor, so I can get my emotions under control.
When I’m inside with the door shut, I allow myself a few tears. Just a few, not so much that I can’t hide that I’ve been crying when Connor comes back. I watch the tinted window, and when I see him break away from his men and come striding towards the car, I wipe the tears away, brushing at my cheeks and dabbing at my eyes.
He doesn’t say anything to me. “Home,” he tells the driver, his voice hoarse and raspy, and then leans his head back against the leather of the seat, closing his eyes.
I don’t disturb him. I can’t imagine how exhausted he must be now that the adrenaline has worn off, how much pain he must be in. I want to reach for him, to touch his hand or soothe him in some way, but I don’t. It would hurt too much if he shrugged me off, and I know that’s what’s likely to happen if I do.
The ride back to the condo is silent. I look at his handsome face as he sits there with his eyes closed, observing my husband. Even streaked with soot, his skin blotchy and mottled with a rash from the heat, his clothes torn and dirty, he’s incredibly handsome. Everything about him is physical perfection, and I ache to touch him, to remind myself that he’s alive. That I haven’t lost him—not completely.
When we arrive back at the condo, Connor gets out without a word, all the way to our front door. Then as he walks inside, he immediately starts unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it off. Something deep in my belly heats at the sight of his broad, muscled back, the flex of his muscles as he balls the soot-stained shirt up in his hands, throwing it in the kitchen trash as he passes the counter and keeps heading down the hall to our bedroom suite.
I shouldn’t follow him—I know instinctively that he probably wants to be alone, but I can’t stop myself. I feel a deep-seated need to watch him, to see for myself that he’s unharmed, that my husband has escaped in one piece. It almost feels possessive, the burning ache in my chest.The fire couldn’t take him away. He’s mine.
Except he’s not, other than in the most legal and technical sense. He’s my husband, but Connor isn’tmine. He’s never given that much of himself to me.
Other than that one night.
I feel a shiver ripple through me at the memory of the night he was William Davies, the two of us fucking drunkenly on the living room floor—or at least, he was drunk. I was stone-cold sober, enough to remember all of it, even if he hadn’t. Even if he’d called me a liar for some of the things I’d told him he said and did.
Connor barely seems to notice I’ve followed him into the bedroom. He takes off his pants, tossing the belt into a drawer and balling up his trousers in the same way he did the shirt. His boxers are next, and I bite my lip at the sight of his muscled ass, the soft swing of his cock between his thighs. I want to touch him, run my hands over him, and prove to myself that he’s really here. That he’s really alive and safe.
He tosses the clothes in the wastebasket, striding towards the bathroom and leaving me there, standing by the door without so much as a word of acknowledgment. I can see the bruises starting to bloom on his skin, the stiff way he walks, and my heart aches, knowing how much pain he must be in.
I hear the sound of the shower turning on and hesitate.
I shouldn’t follow him in there. My pride tells me that all I’m doing is setting myself up for another embarrassing rejection. But it’s as if nearly losing him today shifted something inside of me. I feel as if Ineedto be near him right now, as if being in another room is an unbearable ache. I need to see him.
He almost died.
I walk towards the bathroom despite myself, opening the door and letting myself in. Connor is on the other side of the opaque shower door, apparently oblivious to my presence. I shuck my clothing before I can change my mind, opening the door.
Connor seems to realize I’m there in the same moment I step into the shower, and his eyes go wide. I see his gaze rake down my naked body in a flash, almost as quickly as I saw that flicker of emotion in his eyes earlier, and then he looks at my face, his mouth thinning.
“Can I not take a shower in peace?” he asks irritably.
“I wanted—” my voice trails off. I didn’t know how to articulate what I wanted to him because anything I say will sound foolish. “I wanted to see that you were okay,” I finish lamely, even though I know he won’t buy it. I already know he is. What I wanted was to be near him, and seeing the way he’s smirking at me, I’d give just about anything for him not to realize that.
“I’m not dead,” he says, almost gently. “I made it out. It was touch and go for a minute there, but I got out. And whoever set that fire,ifsomeone set it, I’ll find them.”
My stomach knots, hearing that he had the same thought I did, that it could have been arson.
“You didn’t tell me what was happening.” I don’t need to tell him that Niall was the one who let me know; he’ll assume that Sofia and Caterina told me once they’d heard from their own husbands. I can’t hide the hurt in my voice, though, and I wish I could.
“Would you have cared?” Connor raises an eyebrow, staring down at me emotionlessly, and my chest tightens.Did he really not send me a message because he thought I wouldn’t care?
“I’m your wife,” I manage past the lump in my throat. “Of course, I would care.”
“We haven’t exactly been getting along.”