Page 85 of My Dark Divine
It’s done.
He’ll finally see. He’ll finally understand. The sacrifices I’ve made, the risks I’ve taken, the battles I’ve fought, all for his sake, for our sake. The anger consuming him will fade, giving way to an awareness of my dedication. He’ll finally see me as the protector and loving woman I’ve always been.
My heart beats a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a drumbeat of expectation. The air around me shimmers with a charged energy, as if the world is holding its breath with me.
I’m going to save our marriage.
Irace down the stairs, nearly tripping in my frantic rush to open the door before the visitor loses patience and walks away. No one ever comes to our house, and if they do, it must be for a serious reason. I don’t want Dad lecturing me later about being irresponsible.
West is right on my heels, asking the same question over and over, his voice a blend of confusion, frustration, and annoyance. Since he found me at that party, he’s refused to leave my side. He drove me home and insisted on staying the night, no matter how much I tried to push him out, telling him I needed some space.
I needed to shower, to process everything—the whirlwind of emotions he stirred in me. But of course, he didn’t listen. He never says he’s worried; West would never admit to somethinglike that. Instead, he just implies he doesn’t want anyone noticing I came back from the party alone. After all, we’re still the inseparable lovebirds.
But we both know it runs deeper than that. Beneath the surface, there’s an undeniable shift between us. It’s more than just the incredible pleasure he gave me last night—though that’s worth talking about. It’s something deeper, something we can’t ignore.
I’m not exactly sure why or how it happened, but somehow, we’re no longer itching to claw each other’s eyes out—and that’s a definite change of scenery, one I’m not quite sure how to feel about.
I grab the door handle and swing it open, letting in the fresh, hot air. Today is warmer than usual, and although I’m not typically a fan of sunny days, it lightens my mood a bit.
Standing on the doorstep is a man in a black tracksuit and baseball cap, a wide grin on his face. He’s holding a bouquet of assorted flowers in one hand and a clipboard in the other. “Venetia Ross?” he asks, shoving the clipboard toward me before I can even reply. “Sign for the package, please.”
Blinking in confusion, still half-asleep, I stammer, “I didn’t—” but trail off, deciding it’s pointless to explain. He’s waited long enough for me, and I need to pull myself together. I grab the clipboard and sign it, muttering a quick, “Thanks.”
“What is this?” comes West’s voice, suddenly way too close to my ear. Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I force a polite smile, hand the clipboard back to the delivery guy, and take the flowers.
“Have a nice day,” the man says, glancing nervously between my smile and West’s scowl. I don’t need to see it to know exactly how annoyed he looks.
He turns and heads back to his car, leaving me alone with the grumpy asshole. “What the fuck is this, Venetia?” Westdemands. Calm and unbothered, I step back inside, shut the door, and nudge him with my shoulder as I shove past him. It’s nine in the morning, and he’s already irritated. I honestly can’t fathom how he keeps up this intensity all the time.
“I don’t know, West,” I finally reply, walking into the living room, setting the flowers on the coffee table, and plopping down on the couch. “Maybe there’s a card in here?—”
“There better be,” he snaps, dropping down beside me. The impact jolts me, making me bounce as he leans in, his eyes burning holes into the bouquet. “So I know who I should be tracking down.”
I click my tongue in irritation, twisting the bouquet to find a small card tucked inside. A faint smile creeps onto my face as I pull out the tiny piece of cardstock and read the note.
Hope you’re doing well. I can’t stop thinking of you. I’m sorry for the things I’ve said. Love, (friendly) Eli.
“Is he fucking serious?” West grumbles, snatching the card from my hand. “‘Can’t stop thinking about you,’” he reads with exaggerated disgust. “And ‘Love, friendly’? What the fuck does he think he’s doing?”
I ignore him, focusing on the flowers instead. Grabbing the bouquet, I rise and head toward the kitchen, trying to remember whether we even have a vase. I’ve never received flowers before, so I’m not sure.
He catches up to me, slapping the card onto the kitchen counter with a look of pure frustration. “Will you talk to me?” he urges. “I think I deserve an explanation.”
“There’s nothing to explain, West,” I say calmly, searching through the cabinets. “I haven’t spoken to Eli since the day Ifound out about our engagement. He probably just feels guilty for how things ended.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, it does,” he insists. “You’re my fiancée, and if he hurt you, he needs to learn a fucking lesson.”
A strange flutter stirs in my chest, and I bite my lip, suppressing the reaction I always have when he gets protective. “Relax, West. It wasn’t serious. And this,” I begin, finally pulling out a small vase perfect for the bouquet, “means nothing.”
He’s simmering, silent but tense, even though he knows it’s nothing serious. It’s as if he’s constantly on the hunt for something to set him off. “This fucker is sending you flowers, knowing you’re engaged, and writes about love. He’s clearly hoping for something.”
I laugh, filling the vase with water and placing it on the table. Carefully, I arrange the flowers, smoothing out a few petals. “Whatever you say,” I reply, a hint of amusement in my voice. “You know I’m not interested in Eli.”
He steps closer, and I turn to face him, trying to gauge what’s going on in that intense mind of his. I can practically see the dark, violent images flashing in his head.
