Page 64 of The Wrong Husband

She looks into my eyes and realizes how serious I am.

“A filthy talker who’s self-assured and romantic.” Her features soften. “I don’t stand a chance, do I?"

23

Phoenix

“None,” he growls.

God. That voice—rough and low—drags across my skin like velvet laced with barbed wire.

He’s so confident. His gaze—hot, unflinching—locks me in place, tells me I’m already his target, and he’s not backing down until he claims me. There’s no hesitation. Just the kind of certainty that makes my breath catch. That he’ll win. That I’ll give in. That I’ll want to.

And the worst part?

I already do.

My insides liquefy. Heat pulses low in my belly, spreading out in waves I can’t control. The air between us grows thick—electric—with something volatile, something wild. I don’t dare name it. Not yet. Not while he’s watching me with that razor-sharp focus, like he’s already undressing the layers I’ve spent years building.

His throat works as he swallows. A subtle hitch in his composure. Proof that this connection, this pull—it’s not just me. He feels it too. And God help me, that knowledge hits me harder than it should. It turns me on even more.

Then he leans over and kisses me.

Hard.

It’s a no-warning, high-voltage kind of kiss. A surge of claim and command that hijacks my breath. His lips crush mine, and I melt into the heat of him. His mouth is urgent, his movements sure, and for a moment, I lose myself in the rawness of it. Then he pulls back, just enough to reach across me and push the passenger door open.

“Go on,” he murmurs. “I’ll wait until you’re inside.”

Reluctantly, I step out, the press of his kiss still buzzing across my lips. I don’t look back, but I feel his eyes on me. Watching. Waiting. He doesn’t drive off immediately. I make it to the door, fumble with my keys—my fingers trembling slightly—and only once I’m inside does he pull away.

The house is quiet. The living room lamp glows softly—just like it always does. A small thing, but it anchors me. Drew never turns it off either. Yet in all these months, I’ve never replaced the bulb.

We used to joke it had a DNR order even death respected. Gallows humor. One of the few things Drew and I shared. It’s how you survive in the ER. By laughing at the darkness.

I strip off my clothes slowly, every movement deliberate. There’s the option of a shower. I ignore it.

Because I want to smell him on me.

I slide into bed, turn my face into the pillow—and I’m out in seconds. No spiraling thoughts about Drew. No regrets. No guilt looping on repeat.

For the first time in months, I just…sleep.

That feeling lasts six days. Mostly because I avoid Drew like he’s MRSA and I’m fresh out of PPE.

I set my alarm an hour early every morning. Sacrificing sleep is worth it if it means leaving before he gets off his shift. Maybe, it’s cowardly. Maybe, I’m just not ready. And that’s okay. Some wounds need distance before they can scar over.

I don’t see Connor either. But every night, without fail, he messages me.

Just a simple check-in.How was your day?

No calls. No demands. Just a consistent, quiet presence. The opposite of pressure.

True to his word, I don’t feel surveilled. I don’t even spot the gray sedan he mentioned, though I check. I do. More often than I’d admit.

On the sixth night—last night—he messaged again.

Be ready at 8 a.m. I’m taking you out.