Page 208 of My Ruthless Husband

“Nowt!” she says quickly. “I’m just saying I’m tired and hungry is all. Let’s grab an early dinner, eh?”

I frown, watching her closely. “You should’ve said something earlier. Let’s just go home if you’re tired. I’ll make you—”

“Don’t be daft. We’re in town, and we might as well make the most of it. A nice meal out’ll do us both good.”

It’s strange—Mrs. Hawthorne has always hated crowded places, preferring the quiet sanctuary of her own kitchen. But I don’t push it. Maybe she’s just that hungry and doesn’t want to wait until we’re home.

As we settle into the restaurant, though, an unsettling sensation starts to gnaw at me. It’s as if someone’s watching me, their gaze heavy on the back of my neck.

I glance around, scanning the faces of the diners, but nothing seems out of place. Everyone’s absorbed in their own meals and conversations.

By the time we finish and head home, the feeling hasn’t faded. I tell myself it’s just my nerves.

The next day, I fall back into my usual routine. After finishing the dishes in the morning, I head to the flower shop. When I return home in the evening, I find a note stuck to the front door.

Had to go to town to meet the solicitor, I’ll be back in the evening.

I frown as I read. Mrs. Hawthorne had mentioned this visit before, but I hadn’t expected it so soon. Ever since her husband passed away few years ago, she’s been fighting a legal battle over a townhouse he left her. Some distant relative of his—a cousin’s grandson—had popped up, claiming rights to the property, and it’s been a mess ever since.

The thought of her dealing with this alone weighs on me. No matter how tough she pretends to be, I know how much this has worn her down. She should’ve taken me with her.

I freshen up quickly and change into the new cashmere and silk blend turtleneck midi dress and long run coat in dark green.

I know her solicitor’s address is in the little diary she keeps in the salon, so I start looking for it.

I’m flipping through the pages when a knock at the door startles me. Is she back already?

I rush to the door, ready to scold her for not taking me along. But the moment I pull it open, time grinds to a halt as the air leaves my lungs. My knees threaten to buckle, and I instinctively step back.

Standing before me is the man I’ve been running from.

My husband.

Damian.

Like always, he’s found me again.

Chapter Fifty-Two

Damian strides inside, shutting the door behind him. The sound cuts through my daze, snapping the stillness around me. My heart thunders in my chest as I scramble to find my voice. “Please leave.”

His dark eyes seize mine and a split second later his mouth is on me. His lips cold from the evening wind. He pulls me into his arms with a strength that steals my breath, pressing me to him as if he can’t bear the distance any longer. His kiss is rough, demanding, as though he’s trying to reclaim what he thought he lost. I gasp against him, and he takes full advantage, deepening the kiss with a hunger that makes me dizzy, as if he’s starved for me.

I try to pull away, but he holds me tighter, his hands threading through my hair, his grip possessive. For a moment, I forget everything—everything except the warmth of his mouth on mine, the heat of his body pressing against me.

It feels he’s trying to erase the distance, the month of silence, with every demanding kiss. I can’t think, can’t breathe—only feel the desperate force of him pulling me back into his world.

“You left me again, angel,” he says breaking the kiss, breathless and angry. It’s the kind of tone that slips beneath my skin, making every nerve stand on edge. “Why?”

Fighting for oxygen, I desperately cast my gaze anywhere but on his towering frame. My hands tremble at my sides as I stammer, “This… this isn’t my house. You need to leave before Mrs. Haw—”

“She won’t be coming home tonight,” he interrupts smoothly, already back in control. “I arranged for her to stay at a hotel in town.”

My stomach drops. The room spins slightly as his words sink in. He didn’t just show up—he planned this. Every detail, down to ensuring we’d be alone. My lips part, but no words come out. The shopping spree, the dinner. Even Mrs. Hawthorne was involved.

“You had no right to do that!”

“I wanted to talk in private,” he says matter-of-factly, then adds after a pause, “My eyes are up here.”

---