Page 106 of His Prince

“He won’t understand.”

“He will, more than you know. Our little husband is quite strong.”

I purse my lips and then stand, walking to the door.

“Where are you going?” he asks, but he knows the answer.

So do I.

I’m going to tell him, and he can decide if he still wants me after it’s all laid out.

I find him in the garden, his body hunched over a plant, his lips moving softly, almost as if he’s whispering to it. I wouldn’t be surprised. My little Angel loves his plants, loves what he can foster and grow. He’s a parent at heart, a man made for nurturing.

I ruined that, in some small way. I took that and crushed it.

I resent myself for ever telling myself I wanted him.

My footsteps falter, and I just stare at him, unsure if I should turn back and just let him be free.

But then, for the first time in three days, his eyes meet mine, and I almost stumble backward.

They’re hard, angry, and most of all, sad.

I want to right it, want to fix it.

“Don’t worry, I’m leaving,” he says, his voice cracking as he swipes at his eyes. He turns to walk away, and I open my mouth to call him back, but nothing comes out, it just sticks there. I’ve never been more nervous in my entire life. And I’ve gone up against warlords and mafia men.

And here he is, my little Angel, bringing me to my knees.

Angel continues to move away, making his way to the house. I follow behind him and he picks up his pace, trying to escape me, but I don’t let him. I may be older, but I am in shape.

Mostly.

I may trip over something on the ground as I propel myself forward, but it doesn’t stop me from keeping up with him. He takes the stairs two at a time, and I continue after him, huffing and puffing until we’re in the bedroom. Alone.

He stalks into the closet without a backward glance, but I stop him, my hand on his arm.

“Wait,” I croak.

He glances at where our bodies meet, and he flinches.

“Don’t touch me,” he finally says.

“I have something I need to say.”

He stares at me, unblinking. “Fine, but make it quick. I have a lot of packing to do.”

I swallow and my hand slips from him. I open my mouth to tell him all of it, the dreadful truth, but once more it sticks in my throat.

He rolls his eyes and steps away, muttering to himself. “Stupid. I’m so fucking stupid. Why do I even try?”

He grabs a row of hangers and pushes past me, throwing the clothes on the bed before going back into the closet once more. He’s in a hurry, eager to get away, to leave this place.

So, I block him in, my arms stretching out over the opening, legs braced wide.

“I killed her,” I grind out, and he huffs in annoyance.

“I know.”