Page 170 of My Ruthless Husband

I press my forehead to the glass harder, wishing I could disappear. But he keeps whispering in my ear. His words get more obscene, describing in detail what he loves most doing to me, and I can’t take it anymore. “Where’s your phone?” I snap, cutting him off sharply.

He raises a brow, holding up the device like he’s enjoying every second of my unraveling.

“Then use it and leave me alone!”

His gaze narrows, the mockery fading from his face. “Is it the migraine?”

“Yes,” I lie, desperate to end this twisted game. The pounding in my head is nothing compared to the turmoil in my chest.

Damian’s gaze doesn’t waver, and then he does something that almost breaks me—he reaches out, tucking a stray curl behind my ear with a tenderness that feels out of place, his fingers lingering against my cheek. “Sorry,” he says softly.

My mouth falls open in shock, the word hanging heavy between us. Damian—apologizing? I don’t know what to say, don’t know how to handle this shift, but before I can think, he pulls me to him again, his arm wrapping around my shoulders. He brings my head back to his chest once more. I want to fight him and shout at him for constantly manhandling me but the steady beat of his heart against my ear calms me.

I close my eyes and sink into the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing easing the pounding in my skull. The fabric of his shirt is soft against my cheek, carrying the scent I’ve come to associate with safety and danger all at once. I breathe him in, my fingers gripping the front of his shirt.

For a moment, I forget who he is—who I am. All I know is the comfort of his arms, the solidity of his chest beneath my cheek. I let myself be weak, just for this moment.

It hits me then that this might be the first time he’s touched me like this, without any sexual intention other than simple comfort.

And I have no idea what to do with that.

???

My cheeks are burning, half from anger, half from sheer embarrassment. Instead of waking me like a normal person, Damian made the choice to carry me out of the car and onto the jet like I was some helpless child.

Every one of his men has their eyes on us, and I can’t do a single thing except cling to his neck.

I lean in close, my voice a harsh whisper against his ear, “I have a headache, Damian, not a broken leg.” But he doesn’t so much as glance my way. He just carries me up the jet stairs, completely unfazed by my protests. My anger surges when I spot the flight attendant’s barely-contained grin.

The moment Damian sets me down, I bolt for the back of the cabin, flinging myself into the seat opposite Vicky. I focus on her, desperate to ignore the heavy presence behind me.

Damian soon appears, holding out a glass of juice and aspirin.

I cross my arms, determined to ignore him, but he stands there like a silent wall.

Vicky, ever the peacemaker, takes them from him and gently nudges them my way. I sigh, accepting the offering because I desperately need it.

Vicky, sensing my mood, shifts gears and lifts a bulky backpack onto her lap. She begins to dig through it with purpose, pulling out a neck pillow, a paperback, and my phone with the AirPods.

“Vicky,” I say, half in awe, “what else do you have in that backpack of yours?”

She flashes a smile, and begins listing the contents, but I cut her off with a grin. “You’re so sweet! Thank God, there’s someone here who cares about me.” My words are barbed, and I cast a not-so-subtle glance over my shoulder at Damian. He’s deep in conversation with Hal, barely sparing me a glance.

“Um…” Vicky hesitates, biting her lip. “Mr. Montgomery asked me to pack all of this for you.”

My mouth falls open. “He didwhat?” Is she referring to my husband? That can’t be. Because the same man who once barked orders for me to pack my own things, who never even bothered to ask how I was back then is making so many efforts? This… doesn’t fit. It’s not him. The Damian I know wouldn’t bother.

As the jet ascends and the hours crawl by, he keeps surprising me. He’s not buried in his laptop like he usually is, nor is he pretending I’m invisible. Instead, his gaze is fixed on me, unsettlingly focused. When I refuse to eat, he doesn’t say a word—he just comes over and shoves a forkful of food into my mouth. I want to argue, but my headache is relentless, and I’m too drained to fight back.

It’s like I’m seeing a stranger—someone who’s strangely attentive, and... caring. I don’t recognize him, and I don’t know what to make of this. He’s not the man I remember, and I don’t know whether to be wary or furious.

A yawn slips past my lips and before I can even blink, Damian’s by my side. In an instant, he scoops me out of the seat.

“What are you doing?” I gasp, trying to wriggle free, but his grip is firm.

“You’re exhausted,” he says. “I’m putting you to bed.”

There’s no use arguing when he’s already carrying me toward the private bedroom at the back of the jet.

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