Page 154 of Angel

I grinned, the thrill of the hunt infusing me.

‘Game on, mama,’ I murmured.

ROXY

I’d bottled up my rage for weeks, blocking the pain from Angel’s entanglement with Evangeline.

Now with him around, the floodgates collapsed, and I had no idea how to process this level of acrid bitterness.

I hated my roiling thoughts, but the resentment ran too deep.

I’d given every ounce of my soul to our marriage; still, he’d chosen to protect my sister and not be upfront about it.

By keeping her presence in Nashville a secret, Angel had signaled she was more important to him than I was.

Now here he was, at my grandmother’s farm, claiming he loved me.

The audacity made me want to scream.

All I sought weeks ago was basic communication, honest reassurance, and solid support from my husband.

Instead, he broke my trust.

I couldn’t reconcile with him, not yet.

He had to feel the crushing pain of his actions and experience a fraction of the agony he inflicted on me.

So, I busied myself around the farmhouse, scrubbing, cleaning, and sorting my paintbrushes while wild thoughts looped in my head.

I walked past the kitchen window and paused to peek outside at him.

Angel sat outside, under the stars, next to his RV, tipping a beer bottle back.

The defiance from our earlier encounter was long gone, replaced by a dejected posture evident in his slumped, broad shoulders.

Even in his despondency, his rugged handsomeness was still evident.

The sculpted line of his jaw was leaner under the stubble, and his muscled torso didn’t quite fill out his black T-shirt like it used to.

An impulse hit me, a fierce yearning to march to him, take his hand, and lead him to come back to my bed.

I hated the thought of him sleeping in that hauler and away from me, regardless of my anger.

Hell, I still loved the man with a desperate intensity.

I remembered how exquisite his lips glided over mine, and how his arms always seemed like my safe place.

Still, I resisted his temptation, slicing my eyes from him with a soft curse.

Whether it was stubbornness or sheer madness, Angel stayed put in my driveway, his rig parked at the edge of the gravel while I remained holed up inside the farmhouse.

He never knocked on my door, nor did he demand to speak to me, or force his presence into my house.

Days passed in a silent standoff.

I forced myself to paint, layering paint on canvas as I listened to my favorite music, even though nausea gripped me around the clock.

The constant, churning sickness made my stomach turn almost every hour.