I cross my arms, waiting him out with a raised brow.
“She’s the first person to knock down your walls, which is great. But you built them so damn high in the first place that there’s bound to be collateral damage when they collapse. I just need you not to be buried beneath the rubble when all is said and done.”
“What’s next, Sinclair? Poetry club?”
“This is what you do,” he says, exasperated. “You push people away. You keep your distance from everything and everyone. “What about her father? Have you talked to your wife?”
Hardening my jaw, I look away as my stomach coils.
“It’s not her I worry about. It’s you. You’re pale as fuck because you barely sleep anymore, and you reek of a distillery.”
“You don’t need to worry about me, okay? I’m fine. I’m always fucking fine.”
“Sure,” he bites out with a glare. “You’re so fucking fine.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
The fight leaves him as he blows out a breath. “Nothing. Just, uh, be careful, okay? I don’t want to see you so broken again.”
“Fine…”
He lets me pass this time, but before I exit the room, he pleads, “Don’t enter the cellar again. Please.”
I walk out, tossing him one final confused look over my shoulder.
Darian’s assistant pops her head through the door after lunch to announce that Darian is taking me out for the afternoon.
It marks one of the few rare occasions I’ve been let out of my gilded cage since this nightmare began. Darian keeps a short leash.
Is it even a nightmare anymore? The truth is, I’m not excited because I get to leave the house; I’m excited because Darian wants to spend time with me.
I squash those traitorous thoughts. I can’t let myself forget that Darian Delacroix forced me to marry him against my will after he had my friends murdered.
After applying mascara to my lashes and my favorite raspberry-scented lip gloss, I put on a yellow knee-length sundress and leave my hair loose. Lucious blonde curls cascade down my back, and my skirt swishes around my knees.
I wonder briefly what type of women Delacroix likes as I lift my hair from my neck. Is he a leg or a boob man? Does he prefer blondes or brunettes? The man is a mystery.
A sinfully hot mystery.
There’s a knock on my door, and I turn just as it creaks open to reveal Darian standing in the doorway. I lean against the vanity table, taking in his crisp white shirt, slim tie, and black pants. His enticing cologne fills the air as he steps into my room and glances around, looking out of place, like one of Satan’s hellhounds in a Barbie house. When his eyes meet mine, they darken, and as he remains silent, my heart begins to thud.
“Miss Sanders didn’t tell me where we’re going, so I wasn’t sure what to wear,” I say.
“What you’re wearing is fine.”
Okay then.
I push off the desk and waltz up to him, painfully aware of my tingling nipples. Darian watches me like I’m a dangerous predator—one that makes him wary but intrigued.
“So,” I say when I’m within touching distance, “where are you taking me, Mr. Delacroix?”
His eyes narrow as I smooth his slim tie. “What are you doing?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, much too innocently.
“You’re playing nice. I expected to walk in here and find you cutting up your clothes or planning your great escape.”
“Can a wife not treat her husband nicely.”
