Devil You Know(25)

“Were you okay?” he asks, rubbing the back of his neck. “On your own?”

Fucking dandy. “I survived.”

He moves to the fridge, and grabs a beer from the door. “If you wanted me to stay, you could have asked.”

“Don’t put it on me like that. I’m your guest, so if you want to go out, I’m not stopping you.”

“What do you mean you’re my ‘guest?’” He takes a pull from the bottle, and I’m drawn to the bob of his throat as he swallows.

“This is your place. You’re simply offering me somewhere to stay.”

He tips his head to the side, and I notice for the first time a small scar under his jaw. “It’s our place, Jane.”

“Whoever’s it is,” I snap, “I’m going to bed.” Our place. What does he think is going to happen? We’re going to live here happily ever after? Please.

He nods, and moves aside to let me pass with Rocco. We amble up the hall, my fur-buddy, and I, to the last door on the right. The room I’m in is opposite where he’s going to sleep, and a part of me I wish to ignore is relieved at that.

There’s no logical reason for me to believe Dylan would be able to find me, even if he wanted to. Yet the panic still heats my veins when I think of what will happen if he does. I’m not stupid, but I must have been fucking delirious to think I could simply walk away after all those years together. Okay, so the jackass hated having me around, but if he wanted me gone, he would have sorted that problem years ago. The logical answer is that he still needs me there—even if it is only to do his washing.

Dylan isn’t the mongrel mutt who drops the bone for the larger dog. No, he’ll hunt me down, and take me back—no matter if I’m ruined in the process. The sick fuck would rather have a broken shell of a woman serving on him hand and foot, than be known as the guy who ‘let his wife leave’. He’ll destroy me before I bring him an ounce of shame.

I hope he never finds me.

I want him to suffer trying.





MY FEET tap while I sit on the foot of the bed that I’ll use while I’m here. I went to bed soon after Jane, but sleep never came. For the last hour I’ve paced the house, letting my mind work through the tangle of questions and possibilities Jane created by simply being under the same roof. The trip out to see the boys tonight was supposed to clear my head, let me see that this—whatever I’m fucking doing here—isn’t healthy. But the damn trip did the opposite. I spent the better part of the night nursing my heart like a schoolboy with a crush on a movie star he’d never met; this situation is equally as impossible.

I want to help her, but I’m not sure if what I have to offer is going to do that.

What if who I am only makes her worse?

It’s never going to work. We’d never work.

I should get to sleep, but the fact I can’t see her, know she’s okay bothers me. My door is open, and from where I am, I can see her room. Only, her door is closed. I sit watching her door like a lost puppy, wishing I were the dog I know is in there. My toe tapping picks up speed, and I decide that if I want to be of any use to her I need the sleep, too. I’ve locked the gate at the road, and double-checked every door and window in the place. There’s no way that dickhead could find us, but I’m not taking chances.

I reach over my shoulder and tug my shirt off, throwing it onto the floor. As I stand to remove my jeans, the most lament-filled fucking cry echoes through me from head to toe. Before I register my reaction, I’m at the entrance to her room, hand on the door, pushing it open.

She sits on the bed, cradling Rocco who looks as startled as I am. “What happened?”

“Oh my God, I’m so embarrassed. I didn’t mean to wake you.” She tries to hide behind the dog, which pulls from her grasp, and lies down at her feet. “Damn you, Rocco,” she curses.

I can’t hold back my chuckle at the situation. “Looks like he thinks you shouldn’t be hiding, either.”

“It was a dream, just a bad dream.” Jane scoots down in the bed, and rolls her back to me. “You can go back to bed, thanks.”

“It sounded like a pretty bad nightmare,” I comment, moving around her bed to see her face.

“I’m fine, honestly,” she says, and drags the sheet over her head. “Please,” comes her muffled plea, “go back to bed.”

I’m not buying the fact her dream, if that’s all it was, hasn’t left her affected. But what can I do? If she doesn’t want to talk about it, I’m not going to force her.

“If you need anything . . .” I’ll be waiting for you.