Page 53 of The Unwanted Wife

"Evidently." My wife narrows her gaze on me. "You know who Draco Malfoy is?"

"Considering I’m now married to a Potterhead, the least I could do was brush up on the Potterverse." I smirk.

"Ohmigod, ohmigod!" Zoey slaps her palms over her mouth. "He knows about the Potterverse?

"I take it, you’re also a fellow Swiftie?" I drawl.

"Jesus!" Zoey sways, and my wife grips her arm to right her. "Are you for real?" She looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. "Can I touch you?"

"Excuse me?" I frown.

"To make sure you’re real? You know about the Potterverse and about us Swifties. I want to make sure you exist, and I did not dream you up."

I chuckle. "Sure." I hold out my arm. "You can touch me."

"No, you can’t." My wife closes the distance and grabs my arm, before waving her free hand in her friend’s direction. "Go get your own. This one’s mine."

Mine.

A hot sensation stabs at my chest. A warmth invades my veins. I do belong to her. I always have. Now, I only hope she’ll feel the same when it comes to forgiving my mistakes.

Zoey looks between us, and a genuine smile splits her face. "I’m so happy for you Skye."

She swallows. "Me too," she says almost shyly.

More of her friends head our way. They start talking altogether. The sound builds on itself, and a warning buzz infiltrates my ears. My muscles stiffen, my head spins, and she must feel my discomfort because she looks up at me with a curious expression. "Everything okay, husband?"

29

Skylar

"Here you go." My husband pours Champagne into a flute and places it in front of me.

After the wedding ceremony, he asked me if I wanted to stay for the reception organized by the wedding planner. Of course I wanted to, and not only because the setting in the third tent looked so pretty. Once more, he seemed to have read my mind, with the long table set up in the center of the tent so our friends could sit around the table and relax while a team of staff served us. We sat at one end of the table, Sinclair and Summer at the opposite end. Zoey sat next to me, and to her credit, she hadn’t even looked in Nate’s direction. There had been a toast from Sinclair, who seemed to have taken on the unofficial duties of a best man. Then Zoey raised her glass and said how happy she was about our union. She also managed to weave in a warning aimed at my husband that he’d better treat me right, to which he graciously nodded his head. He didn’t say a word throughout the dinner. He also didn’t eat. As the Champagne was downed and the noise level at the table increased, his jaw had grown increasingly tense. His color began to fade, and his hold on his glass of water grew tighter. His gaze was focused on some faraway place where I couldn’t reach him, and he didn’t answer any of the good-natured ribbing coming his way.

I sensed Dr. Weston—who my husband had introduced me to earlier—shoot him a couple of strange glances, but my husband didn’t notice. He seemed to grow more and more distant as the minutes wore on. When I finally told him I was ready to leave, he didn’t respond. Not until I touched his shoulder, when he visibly flinched. And when he raised his gaze to mine, I spied shadows in them. He rubbed his temple, and I was sure he was suffering from a headache. I gestured to him that I wanted to leave, and he didn’t waste a second. He jumped up, and without bidding anyone goodbye, he hustled me out of there.

To be frank, by then, everyone was in high spirits. Sinclair and Summer were kissing, Dr. Weston had pulled his wife onto his lap. G-Pa was trying to engage Imelda in conversation—though she was having none of it. And Edward was seated near them, looking deeply into his wife Mira’s eyes. As for my friends? Grace was on her phone, while Zoey had taken on the role of keeping Tiny away from the Champagne. Nate’s other half-brothers were busy glowering at each other. Connor is the only one who, seeing us leave, raised his glass.

All in all, none of them would miss us. My husband hustled me to the waiting car and instructed the driver to take us to his place on Primrose Hill.

He was engrossed in swiping his phone screen, and I was left with a sense of letdown. I stared at my wedding band—a simple platinum affair, which I thoroughly approve of—and tried to talk to him, but he didn’t reply.

I shot a sideways glance at the slimmer version of the band he sported on his left hand. Apparently, he’s traditional enough to wear one, and OMG, I couldn’t stop that warmth of possessiveness from squeezing my chest when I looked at it. I’d tried to broach the issue of our wedding bands with him, but then he accelerated the timing of the ceremony, and everything had happened so fast. Rachel told me not to worry about it, that Nate would be taking care of it, and that was that. I raised my gaze to my husband’s face, but his brow was furrowed as he stared at his phone.

He seemed to have retreated to some part of himself with a do-not-disturb sign hung on it. Or maybe, he just needed a little time to decompress? It’s not every day one gets married, after all. And that ceremony… It felt real. Genuine. Honest. When he kissed me, it felt like a pact. The start of something new. I wanted to ask him if he felt the same, but it didn’t seem like the right time to broach the issue. And to be honest, I’d have been devastated if he’d said no.

I turned to share my feelings with my husband, but the frown on his face was so uninviting, I held off.

By the time we reached his place, he was more relaxed. He told the driver to take the rest of the day off, then unlocked the door to his beautiful Victorian home and guided me inside. He escorted me to a small table laid for two, with a bucket of Champagne on it and two chairs facing each other on the deck outside the living room.

Now, he pours Champagne for me and sparkling water for himself. Huh? Come to think of it, I’ve never seen him drinking alcohol.

“You’re a teetotaler?” I frown.

“I was never a big drinker. And once I joined the Marines, I found I was more focused, and my faculties were sharper when I abstained from alcohol. I chose to steer clear of the booze in my downtime after I returned to civilian life. It… it felt right to stay that way.” He hesitates. “Probably has to do with seeing my mother hitting the bottle in the latter half of her life. It was her crutch for forgetting how she’d been turned away by my father’s family.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

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