Page 155 of Devil Mine

“Did you tell him I was coming?”

He shakes his head.

Uncertainty fills me, making my heart race. I’m afraid of what I’ll find on the other side of that door.

“Is he–” My words die in my throat. “Is he alone?”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Open the door and find out.”

Completely unhelpful.

I take a deep breath, my palm closing around the handle. The breath gets caught in my chest as I press the door open and walk in.

Thiago is sitting at his desk. He’s leaning back in his chair, his head resting against the seat, his eyes closed. His chest rises and falls rhythmically as if he’s sleeping. I’d say he looks almost peaceful except his brows are furrowed like he’s being haunted by nightmares.

And he’s alone.

A tidal wave of relief consumes me, one so powerful that my knees almost give in. Emotion lodges itself thickly in my throat.

He’salone.

His eyes open slowly at the sound of the door unlatching. They visibly dilate when he finds me standing in his doorway. The emotion in his gaze is indecipherable. I can’t tell if he’s glad, annoyed, or angry to see me, but there are unhappy lines around his mouth that open up a gaping hole in my chest. Even still, the electricity between us is tantalizing. He stares silently, his eyes boring so intently into mine that they raise my body temperature.

I feel hot and flush.

Weak-kneed and shaky.

Worse, unsure.

I hate this.

Unfastening first the belt of my jacket, then the buttons, I shuck my trench coat off and toss it on the couch to my left, getting immediate relief from the air circulating in the room.

His nostrils flare and his jaw grinds together when he takes in what I’m wearing. I’m in a matching pink pajama set consisting of tiny silk shorts and a strappy top, paired with low rise Ugg boots. I’m hardly in leaving-the-house appropriate attire — let alone in going-to-a-club appropriate attire — but I ran out of our home without bothering to change, grabbing my keys and coat and nothing else.

I walk up to Thiago’s desk with my heart in my throat. He licks his lips predatorily as he watches me approach but says nothing. His silence is so much worse than any recording my father could ever play for me.

“I’m sorry,” I offer candidly.

When I lift my gaze to meet his, I find gleaming eyes fixed on my face. Gruff words tumble precariously from his lips. “For what?”

“For taking my anger out on you and for the terrible things I said yesterday.” I shake my head. “I didn’t mean it, any of it, and you didn’t deserve it. You were right about everything. It doesn’t matter to me what you said in that recording. You’ve only treated me well since marrying me and that’s what’s important. Actions, not words.” My throat works with difficulty around the mass of emotion, but sincerity echoes in my voice. “I’m so sorry.”

My pulse thrashes loudly in my ears as I wait for his reply. He doesn’t make me wait long.

“Why did you come here?” he asks, low and uneven.

I lift my chin. “To bring you home.”

“That’s what you want?” he demands roughly.

I nod. “I don’t want to spend another night in our bed without you.”

“Why not?”

Because it was a miserable experience.

Because I love you.

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