Page 11 of The Bad Husband

I should go back, yet I linger a little longer. It’s hard not to.

White pillows that look like marshmallows rest on the lounging chairs. A small table sits nearby, oh, so inviting.

This place would look great with glasses of wine and people chatting.

What’s up with Henrietta?

No one seems too concerned about her absence. For sure, not her husband, which makes me think this is something she does often. Getting married. Getting bored. Doing other stuff.

She practically mastered it.

She nailed it with my father.

What exactly does she do? Separating men from their hard-earned cash?

Oh.

What if she’s a sentimental crook compelling men who don’t know any better to change their lives for her?

I laugh at the not so crazy idea, missing the moment when two tattooed hands slide on either side of me on the handrail, caging me in.

My eyes dip and my heart tumbles before racing in my chest, engulfed in a surge of panic.

I almost have a hard attack as I jerk back and hit the man’s hard chest, when a shrill shoots from my chest.

He easily slides a hand over my mouth, making me go quiet.

“Chill, woman. I didn’t know you’d get so easily spooked.”

“I didn’t know you were in the house, Demon,” I say as he slides his hand away and makes room for me to swivel and face him.

“Damon. Damon West,” he corrects me, amused.

And he goes nowhere from there, pinning me with his eyes, which are now glinting with a devilish smile.

“You’re having fun?” I shriek, tempted to hit his chest, knowing it’s inappropriate.

So are his arms on either side of me. I make an honest effort to move away from him.

He vetoes my idea down, widening his stance and blocking my retreat.

His smell is insanely powerful. It moves fingers over my face and lips.

I almost taste it.

It’s strong, memorable, and corrupting.

It makes me think about inappropriate things, like the things he does to me right now.

Keeping me hostage.

A gust of wind blows a strand of hair over my face.

“Lila Skye,” he murmurs, looking down, peering at me through the curtain of hair moving over my face. “Are you a good girl or a bad girl?” he asks, deftly brushing my hair away from my face and over my shoulder so he can see my eyes.

I stare at him, dumbfounded.

“What kind of question is that?”