Page 37 of The Wrong Husband (The Davenports #6)

"A condition?" I massage my thumb into the pulse that kicks up at the base of her throat. My voice comes out sounding ominous. I won’t apologize for that. She’s mine.

Doesn’t she already know that? And she wants to be mine.

I can see it in the way her body sways toward mine.

The way her peaked nipples are highlighted against the satin of her dress, the way her fingers cling to my skin, and how she tilts her head, so her cheek brushes my wrist.

The core of me that’s used to taking charge wonders why she feels compelled to hold back when she’s so clearly turned on? When she so clearly relishes that I’m unable to take my gaze off her. But the protector in me understands her reservations and wants to resolve her doubts.

"What is it, Fever?" I increase the pressure around her throat, knowing it will ground her, and communicate my reassurance to her. "Tell me."

"I do want to marry you; you know that."

I nod, knowing she’s working her way toward telling me what’s on her mind and that I need to be patient about it.

"Go on," I say gently.

Something in my voice must buoy her confidence, for she tips up her chin and meets my gaze. "And it’s going to be a real marriage. I want it to be a real marriage. Which means, we’ll be sharing a bedroom."

I frown, wondering what she’s getting at. I stay silent, knowing that’s the best way to coax her into completing her train of thought.

"But you know how independent I am. It’s why I left home and put myself through med school with the loans I took out and the money I made with the part-time jobs I picked up in the hospital.

" A crease forms between her brows. "It was my need to earn the money toward saving my ER that made me agree to your proposition. "

"Your independence is one of the reasons I’m attracted to you.” I hold her gaze. “You challenge me, Fever. You make me want to understand what makes you tick. What goes on behind your eyes and in that intelligent mind of yours. It’s what makes me want to find a way to make you submit willingly."

She flushes. The color is so pretty on her cheeks and staining the column of her throat. I resist the urge to lick the line of pink and allow my stance to stay patient.

“But there’s one thing I don’t understand.”

She tilts her head.

“Why do you feel responsible for finding the money to save the ER? Why are you so desperate to save this specific hospital, of the many in this city?”

Her expression turns inward like she’s chasing a thought she hasn’t quite caught. “I never realized how it might seem from the outside.” She rubs at her forehead. “You’re right, there’s no reason for me to feel a moral obligation to save the ER?—”

“But you do.”

“I do.” Her jaw locks. “I think, it’s because I was born into privilege.

My job—it’s not just a career. It’s how I prove I’m more than the circumstances I was handed.

Yes, it pays my bills, and no, I’ll never be on the streets—my family would never let that happen.

But that’s exactly the point. Most of my colleagues here don’t have that safety net.

They show up, day after day, giving everything they’ve got.

And I’ve worked alongside them long enough to know their stories.

Their struggles. Their quiet resilience.

That’s why I can’t walk away. That’s why I feel responsible. ”

Her voice drops. “I knew what was coming. I could’ve done something sooner. I didn’t. So now, I have to fix it. Not just for the ER—but for them.”

A shadow crosses her features.

“I’ve saved lives in this place. Countless lives. If the ER closes, people in this borough will die.”

Her gaze turns inward, haunted. I know she’s hurting, and damn, I’d do anything in my power to stop it.

“What is it, Fever?” I ask, low and urgent.

She doesn’t respond, so I grip her chin and tilt her face up to mine. “Talk to me.”

She blinks, comes back to herself. “Neurologically? I’m trapped in a feedback loop. My brain registers a failure—something I should’ve done but didn’t. My body floods with cortisol, and I get stuck in fight-or-flight, without a real threat or a way out. So, I stay there. Spinning.”

“You feel guilty for the advantages you had. And somewhere inside, you believe you haven’t earned any of it. So, you overcompensate. You try to make it right by giving everything to the people who don’t have what you do.”

She draws in a sharp breath. “Am I that transparent?”

“Only to me.” I curve my lips. “And only because I get it. That’s why I’m donating my trust fund to Save the Kids. I need it to mean something.”

Her eyes soften. “We’re more alike than I thought.”

“We are.”

The seconds stretch, taut and silent. Our gazes lock—unflinching, unguarded.

The air thickens, electric with the pulse of that constant chemistry.

But beneath the heat, there’s something deeper now.

A sense of alliance. Like we’re no longer just two people colliding—but a single force, turned outward, facing the world together.

A team. A unit. And it hits me again—how lucky I am to have found her. How inevitable this is. Her and me. Us.

“Your condition?” I clear my throat.

“Eh?”

“You said you had a condition?”

She hesitates, then nods. “I want to keep my place after we get married.”

Keep her place? That throws me. I blink. “You’ll be moving in with me though?”

“I will.” She looks away, then meets my eyes again. “I bought the house two years ago, with the money I earned as a junior doctor. It’s the first place that felt truly mine. I don’t want to give it up.”

So, she’ll live with me. Sleep beside me. Share my home. But keep a separate space… Just in case? I frown.

“You want to keep it… As… A backup?”

She shifts her weight, curling one foot behind the other. “I’ve been on my own since I was eighteen. Always had my own space. Always been independent. I can’t let go of that part of me overnight. Moving in with someone and not having a place of my own...feels wrong.

“We're getting married so quickly. That’s already a big change. Leaving home now would be to strip everything familiar from me, all at once.

“I’d like to keep my place until I adjust to my new life with you. I simply need to let go slowly, even as I jump into something exciting and new. It's not an escape but a way to transition without losing myself.”

She swallows.

“There have been occasions in the past when I've moved quickly and regretted it.”

Is she talking about an ex? Has to be. She hasn’t told me about him. But she will. With my actions, I’ll convince her to trust me enough to tell me all about him.

“I don’t want to make that mistake again. I need time to adjust to the transition.”

I stare at her. I shouldn’t be thrown off by this. It’s her strength, her independence that drew me to her in the first place. But still?—

Fuck, I want her to be mine. Entirely.

Not part-time. Not one foot in and the other out.

“I’m a possessive man, Fever.” My voice is low. “I want my wife in my bed every night. Under my roof. Wearing my ring, and knowing there’s no out. I want her to feel at home in my space because it’s hers too. I don’t like the idea of you having one foot outside the door, even symbolically.”

Her eyes search mine. “You’re saying, no?”

I shake my head. “No. I’m saying I don't like it—but I get it. You’re not asking for space. Just…a safety net. Something familiar while we build whatever this is.”

I draw in a sharp breath. What I really want to say is that I hate it.

I hate that she’s already planning an exit strategy—even after saying yes to marrying me. That she’s still half-out the door while I’m already all the way in.

God, I want to tell her that once she moves in, she’s mine. That I won’t let her walk away. Ever.

But that would only make me come across as desperate and unreasonable, and it would put her on the defensive.

Better to agree to what she wants, because clearly, this is important to her. But once we’re married, I’ll convince her that she won’t need that place. That she’ll never want to go back.

Managing to keep my voice casual, I offer, “But if it offers you peace of mind, then keep it.”

The tension drains from her face. Her shoulders drop. The tightness between her brows smoothens out. So, this is what was weighing on her.

“However—” I lean forward, narrowing my gaze. “It does make me wonder if you’re unsure about moving in with me. Probably, because I haven’t shown you what your new home looks like.”

She blinks.

“What do you say we change that?”