Page 29 of The Wrong Husband (The Davenports #6)

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.

It’s my day off. I should’ve resisted. Instead, I spent an embarrassing amount of time figuring out what to wear, then settled on a dress. Not yoga pants. Not scrubs. An actual dress.

One I didn’t even know I wanted to wear until I put it on and saw the woman staring back at me in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed with excitement. I’m looking forward to going out with him. He knows how to get to me, that’s clear.

I may not have forgiven him for the surveillance stunt. But I’ll give him this—he’s using the intel well. He’s trying. Hard.

I’m not ready to reward him for it. But it’s clear, he’s succeeding in getting me to thaw toward him.

I walk into the kitchen later than usual, and freeze.

Drew is there.

Seated at the breakfast nook, hunched over a cup of coffee. His hair’s a mess, his T-shirt wrinkled, dark circles smudged under his eyes. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

“Rough night?” I ask, careful to keep my tone neutral.

He grunts. Sips the coffee. Grimaces.

“You really shouldn’t drink that before trying to sleep.”

No reply. Typical. Drew prefers his guilt trips to be passive-aggressive. Silent in person, pointed via his text messages.

Just when I think I’m beginning to heal, he finds a way to drag me back down.

I sigh and walk around him, setting up my French press while he continues his silent sulk. My coffee method versus his percolator—a small, petty act of separation.

“Have you found a new place yet?” I ask, voice low.

He frowns. Pretends not to hear me.

“You said you’d move out within a month, and that was a week ago,” I say, fingers knotting together. “You need to leave when the three weeks are up.”

His jaw tightens. “Are you doubting that I won’t? I don’t want to stay on a minute more than is necessary. Things have been crazy in the ER. I haven’t had the time to look for a new place.”

When he glances at me, he looks so knackered, my heart softens.

“I know it’s been crazy, more than usual, maybe. I’m sorry to push things?—”

“Then don’t,” he snaps.

My stomach lurches. No, no. I can’t allow him run roughshod over me.

I gave him a month to find a place. That’s more than enough time.

But apartments in London are never easy to come by.

I feel myself beginning to vacillate and clamp down on the feeling.

No. Stay firm. You have to. You need him gone so you can move on with your life.

You can’t let him dictate how you live. Not anymore.

“We agreed.” I set my jaw. “You have three weeks to leave.”

His grip on the mug goes white-knuckled. He doesn’t shout. Doesn’t argue. Just drains the rest of his coffee and storms off without a word.

I sag against the counter. Only then, do I realize how tight my body is, braced for a fight that never came. My hands tremble as I reach for the kettle. I set it back down.

Forget the coffee. I’m done.

Purse in hand, I step outside, closing the door on that heaviness. On Drew.

And right on cue, the now-familiar Aston Martin eases to a stop by the curb.

My pulse spikes.

The moment I see Connor, everything inside me realigns. He’s leaned back in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, sunglasses pushed up on his head. The slow, assessing sweep of his gaze over my body sends a thrill cascading through my bloodstream.

The look he gives me? Possessive. Proud. Like I belong to him, and the whole damn world should know it.

His smile curves—lazy, confident, dangerous. He jerks his chin toward the passenger seat. A silent command.

I obey.

Sliding into the car feels natural. Like slipping into something familiar but forbidden.

“Good morning.” He nods toward the drink in the cupholder.

I pick it up and take a slow sip, savoring the warm, spiced sweetness. No surprise—another dirty chai latte, just how I like it.

“Thank you.” I lift it in a small salute. “You’re looking pleased with yourself.”

His grin deepens. “I have a surprise for you.”