Page 61 of Taking Denver

“I’m starting to think you enjoy watching me, Wife.”

I tut. “Stop calling me that.”

“What else should I call you?”

I shrug, picking up a bag and placing it on the kitchen island to rifle through it. “I quite like it when you call me ‘little bird.’”

A shiver climbs up my shoulder as he approaches me. My breathing stutters as I raise my gaze to his.

“Open,” he says quietly. He holds a slice of apple between his fingers, and I part my lips. “Tongue out.”

My entire body bursts to life, the words making me throb, and I do as he says. He places the fruit on my tongue, the sweetness igniting my taste buds, his eyes burning as I pull the apple into my mouth and chew slowly.

He brushes my hair back. “Come to dinner with me, little bird.”

I swallow the fruit. “You only want to take me to dinner so the paparazzi see us.”

He’s done it before, forced me to go into public so photos of us would be posted everywhere. Ranger is convinced that being adored by the public offers us some kind of safety—that the general population will be on our side if we are ever in serious trouble with the police.

It isn’t untrue. The stories flying across social media are wild, but the general consensus is that if I killed Wyatt, then good for me. After what he said in those videos?—

“I want to take you to dinner, Denver,” Ranger says, interrupting my thoughts. “Not for the magazines, not for any appearances. For us.” He turns me to face him. “Let me take you out.Wife.”

I bite the inside of my lip but fail to hide a smile. “Only if you stop calling me that.”

“Never,” he whispers. “Yes or no?”

I sigh. “Yes.”

“Good. I have to go out. Be ready for seven.” His gaze travels down my neck. “Wear red.” He releases me, but I can’t control stamping my foot as he walks away.

“I’ll wear whatever color I damn please!”

His laugh echoes back at me. “Dark red, specifically.”

Prick. Controlling, stupid prick.

I stride through the foyer, and Martha appears from the sitting room. We glare at each other, and Martha huffs before walking out again.

What is that woman’s problem recently?

I climb the stairs to my room and soak in the tub in my ensuite for hours, eyes closed, topping up the water when it chills. Wesson snoozes on the tiled floor, his snores the only sounds in the room.

I think about Ethan. I text Sebastian as often as I can, keeping up to date with his lack of dating and busy work schedules, but I haven’t contacted or heard from Ethan.

He’d told me he was here if I needed him, even if it was only for pieces, but I can’t do that to him, and I refuse to treat our relationship like it’s part-time. I want all of him or nothing, despite how much my heart breaks whenever he crosses my mind.

My phone rings. Like the universe has decided to throw me a bone, Ethan is calling. I snatch up the phone, my fingers slipping against the screen.

“What’s wrong?”

Ethan sighs. “I’m fine.”

I close my eyes, placing my hand over my racing heart. “You’re sure?”

“Positive. Are you okay? You sound?—”

On edge? Terrified? Falling into the hands of a monster?

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