Page 164 of His Surrender

The apartment is warm behind us, filled with the soft glow of the Christmas tree and the faint scent of the dinner he made, but Dean looks like he has been standing outside in the cold for hours.

His skin is pale beneath the warm entryway light. His breathing comes in uneven pulls, each one lifting his chest against mine before shuddering out again.

Even with both of my hands pressed to his face, I can feel the tremors running through him.

I have seen Dean irritated.

I have seen him exhausted, overwhelmed, and so far out of his depth with Liana that he looked ready to start interviewing pediatricians at two in the morning.

I have seen him worried.

This is not worry. This is terror.

Raw, unguarded terror that has stripped away every trace of the man who can command a boardroom with one look.

“I thought you were dead.”

The words settle between us, too awful and too heavy to absorb all at once.

My heart twists painfully.

“Dean.”

I do not know what else to say.

I wish I could rewind the afternoon. I would buy a charger from the first store I entered. I would borrow someone’s phone. I would abandon half my shopping list and come home the second the crowds became impossible.

But I cannot change any of it now.

All I can do is stand here while he stares at me with fear still living in his eyes.

“I’m so sorry.” My voice comes out thin and unsteady. “I should have found a way to call you. I knew my battery was getting low, but I kept thinking I was almost finished. Every line was longer than the last, and then I lost track of how late it had gotten.”

His fingers tighten around my wrists. “I’m not angry.”

“I know.”

He looks toward the clock on the wall as though he cannot help himself. It reads 7:23.

“I knew there were reasonable explanations,” he says. “I told myself every one of them.” His gaze returns to me. “It didn’t matter.”

Something about the way he says it frightens me more than if he had yelled. There is no accusation in his voice. No demand that I explain myself better—only confusion. As if he does not understand what happened inside him any more than I do.

I slide my hands from his face to his shoulders. His body remains rigid beneath my palms.

“Come sit down,” I say.

He shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

His jaw tightens. “I said I’m fine.” The words are automatic, spoken in the firm, controlled tone he uses whenever someone gets too close to something he would rather not examine.

I do not let him retreat behind it.

“No, you aren’t.”

His eyes close for a second. The fight seems to leave him all at once, his shoulders dropping beneath my hands.