Page 169 of My Ruthless Husband

But the most ridiculous part is that he actually compared himself to my father. Damian had the nerve to twist my father’simage into something unrecognizable. The thought makes my chest ache with a sickening disbelief and fury.

How could Damian even think that my father, who always acted with my best interests at heart, could be capable of doing something so monstrous? Dad might be overbearing, controlling even, but every act was coated with the bitter sweetness of love. He did what he did because he wanted to protect me, even if it meant hurting me. Damian is wrong—so wrong. Damian and my father are nothing alike.

My thoughts splinter when I feel the lightest brush of fingers against mine. My eyes snap open to see Damian’s hand gently nudging mine away, his fingertips settling against the spots that throb.

I freeze, my heart stuttering as he begins to massage my temples in a slow, almost tender motion.

What is he doing? I can’t read his expression in the shadows of the car. I don’t know what he is thinking, I just know it’s odd. My instincts take over and I jerk away. “I’m... I’m fine.”

The car window is my only escape, and I fix my gaze on the blurred scenery rushing past. I need to keep my distance—physically, emotionally, in every possible way but Damian doesn’t give me the chance.

His hand catches my elbow, and he pulls me back with a force that leaves me breathless. “What are you—” My protest dies on my lips as he guides my head to rest against the solid wall of his chest, his hand moving to cradle the back of my neck.

I tense when his fingers slide into my hair, massaging my scalp with a gentle pressure that almost undoes me, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to crumble completely.

I want to pull away but soon he finds the right spots and applies the right pressure. A shaky sigh slips from me, his touch breaking down the last of my resistance and without meaning to, I lean into him.

“Migraine?” His voice is low, softer than I expected, almost caring.

I nod, cheek pressed against him. I can’t bear to look at him, can’t bear to acknowledge the strange comfort he’s giving me. I should pull away but the thought of losing this brief moment of relief is too much to bear.

“Where are we going?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can catch it. I want to bite it back immediately.

Why am I doing this? Didn’t I learn from our last and only trip together? He ignored me then—barely said a word the whole way there and back, leaving me to twist in my own misery.

“Scotland,” he says, not breaking the rhythm of his fingers against my scalp.

My entire body goes rigid. Scotland. Again. It feels like some cruel cosmic joke, dredging up every awful memory I thought I’d buried. That castle—the cold, empty halls, the echo of my footsteps, and the endless days waiting for him to come to me, the heartache, the crushing weight of being invisible in the eyes of the one person I’d given everything to.

I was so naïve. I used to think if I just tried harder, he would change. That somehow, I’d be enough. But not this time.

Not this time. I’m not the naïve girl I once was. I’m not that foolish twenty-one-year-old virgin, blinded by the fantasy of love. That was a different girl who believed that love could conquer anything. That girl doesn’t exist anymore. I won’t be waiting by the window, won’t beg for scraps of his affection.

I don’t have any illusions left to cling to. I have nothing left to lose, no dreams to shatter. If Damian wants to return to the place where he first broke me, then fine. If he wants to ignore me, like he did back then, fine. If he wants to play this game of half-hearted affection and lust, that’s fine too. I’ll play along, but I won’t get burned.

He won’t get the satisfaction of seeing me beg or hope. Because I won’t make the same mistake twice.

Anyway, I’ll have Vicky with me this time, so I might actually enjoy my stay at the castle.

“Think of it as our second honeymoon,” he says, snapping me out of my thoughts.

I scoff, twisting in his arms to look at him. “A second honeymoon?” I say slowly, letting every word drip with mockery. “How can it be a second honeymoon when we never even had the first?”

Silence. He doesn’t respond, and for a moment, I think I’ve managed to silence him. I inch closer, my head pounding but my pride demanding I twist the knife. “What’s wrong?” I taunt. “Cat got your tongue, husband?”

A slow, wicked smile spreads across his face. “Why? Do you want it inside you,wife?”

Heat flares across my cheeks, and I jerk away from him, slamming back against the car door with a force that makes my headache throb.

He chuckles, the sound deep and infuriating. “I like it when you blush,” he says, and I hate the way warmth floods my skin even as I glare at him.

I press my forehead to the window, willing the cool glass, to help me ignore his gaze burning into my back.

Please, I beg silently, just go back to how things were. Ignore me. Let me disappear in the background like I always did. But it’s like he’s determined to strip me bare, to unravel every shield I’ve managed to build.

“Even now,” he whispers, leaning close enough that his breath grazes my ear, “you still blush for me. Why’s that, angel?”

My breath catches when his words turn vulgar, teasing me with how I look when I fall apart beneath him. I close my eyes,fury and embarrassment warring inside me as he goes on and on about my creamy skin and how much he loves marking it.

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