Page 119 of Desperate People

Is it possible he actually fucked me stupid?

Honestly, it’s a miracle I haven’t just slid to the floor, completely comatose.

But I manage to get clean, keeping to my side of the enormous shower. And he does the same.

He doesn’t touch me. He just watches me.

For the first time in my life, I feel so fucking seen.

Christ, I love this man so much it scares me.

And I wonder, can he love me back?

Chapter Twenty-Eight-Balor

After whatever the fuck that was in our dining room—the sexual explosion brought on by flowers sent by another man, a song title about my wife, the fucking handwritten message—I feel raw.

Like something in me got turned inside out.

There’s fury, yeah.

Rage simmering beneath my skin like a second pulse.

But under that? There’s something worse.

Fear.

That someone might get close enough to rattle her.

Shake her faith in me.

Or worse—convince her I’m not worth the trouble.

I step out of the shower first, rubbing my hand over my face, trying to pull myself together.

The bathroom is filled with steam and the scent of her.

That floral shampoo she likes.

The one I made sure we had stocked here before we even left for the honeymoon.

My chest tightens when I reach for a towel and grab blue instead of white.

I don’t own blue towels. Never have.

But she does.

She’s adding things to this house.

Quiet things.

Soft things.

Herself.

Like she belongs here.

I really fucking like that.

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