Page 120 of Deviant Princess (Knight's Ridge Empire 5)

“Do you want to try that again, bro?” he asks quietly, his face so close his nose is almost touching mine.

“You think us being together is a good idea?” The words hurt to say, but they’re the truth. We’re toxic and are probably better off apart.

The burning need I have to be close to her, to consume every one of her thoughts, the desire to never let her out of my fucking sight again—and certainly not anywhere near any other guy—isn’t healthy, and I’m pretty sure it’s going to send me on a one-way trip to the fucking nut house.

“I don’t give a fuck what is a good or a bad idea, Theo. Do you fucking want her back?” His palms connect with my shoulders once more, giving me another painful shove.

“You fucking know I do,” I concede.

“Then sort your fucking shit out and prove it to her.”

* * *

It wasn’t the first time he’d said those words to me. Hell, he’s not the first person to say those words. But hearing them not long after seeing her in real life for the first time in what feels like forever, they seemed to register more than before.

I didn’t bother showering at the gym. Instead, I grabbed my shit after Seb’s little speech and got the hell out of there. I’d had more than enough of the amused glances from the others after having my arse handed to me by Titch. I was more than happy to go lick my wounds alone at home. Although, I can admit that I’d much prefer her licking my wounds.

My cock stirs at the thought as I lie on the sofa, staring down the hall toward her empty bedroom.

The temptation to get in my car and go hunting for her is huge, but where would I even start?

I might be able to guess a few of her favoured locations after following her like a fucking stalker since discovering that she was my wife, but if she’s still with him, then they could be anywhere.

I know her trackers are dead. I’ve stared at the inactive blob that’s still at its final resting place in Link’s flat more than I want to admit, but it doesn’t stop me from checking again, praying that something will come up.

It doesn’t. But even if it did, I can see her phone in her bedroom.

Why hasn’t she turned it on yet?

Does she know it’s going to be full of messages and voicemails from me? Most that I already regret because I sent and recorded them when I was off my fucking head drunk.

Is she afraid to find out if they even exist, or if I never bothered trying to contact her after she played me like she did?

Or does she just not care?

Was all of it an act, a ploy to get me on side so she could wind me around her little finger and come out on top?

“No.”

I refuse to believe it. She’s not that good a liar, an actress.

A loud bang through the screen startles me, and by the time I wake my tablet back up, I can’t help but hiss a “Yesss,” knowing that I’m potentially going to get to spend the night watching her again like I once used to.

Thank fuck no one found the cameras. Clearly, they don’t realise just how fucking obsessed I really am.

If they had any clue, they never would have let her back here.

She kicks off her boots and drops her jacket before walking over to her chest of drawers where I know she keeps her pyjamas.

She pulls the middle one open and stares down at the drawer before rummaging as if she’s looking for something.

My shirt.

She wants my shirt.

In a rush because I don’t want to miss anything, I roll off the sofa, quietly groaning in pain, and race toward her bedroom.

There, on the end of the bed, is my shirt—her shirt.