Page 72 of His Prince
“Ah, well then you can go away. I have nothing to say to you.”
“Angel,” I hiss but he continues to work. I’m ignored, obviously nothing to him at this moment. It makes my rage boil over.
My arm flings out and I grab a small ceramic pot, throwing it to the ground. It smashes into a hundred pieces.
Angel’s eyes widen as he takes in the mess I made, and a second later, it hardens.
“Are you throwing a tantrum?”
“Fuck you. Come to bed.”
“No. Not until you apologize to Andrew and clean up this mess.”
My jaw ticks and my hands ball into fists. “You’re my husband. I can make you.”
“You can try,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “But I will fight you the entire way. I may be sweet, husband, but I’m not meek.”
I can’t fucking stand it. Stand him. I reach out and grab another pot, throwing it onto the ground and watching as the pieces shatter. Angel ignores me, continuing to plant those fucking bulbs in the dirt. As if I’m nothing more than a bug on the wall.
I want to break all of this, send the pieces flying. He’s planting in the dirt my grandmother toiled over, the space that my mother would lose herself in for hours.
The place I found solace.
The same place Katarina destroyed.
She took everything from me. She took it all and here he is trying to rebuild it.
He’s regrowing the heart of this home, and I fucking hate it.
I turn and stomp from the greenhouse, moving into the house and passing Andrew as I go. He’s chatting with Casey, and I glower at him.
“Angel is unattended outside.”
“Titus is out there,” Casey says, dismissing me.
I grind my teeth and nearly lash out when I see Andrew’s lips twitch. He thinks this is funny.
He’s laughing at me.
“I want you gone tomorrow,” I say, and he nods, but I have a feeling he’s going to ignore me as well. That he will defer to Angel and I’ll find him still here in a few days’ time. I’m no longer the boss. I’m just a lowly employee of my fucking angelic, demonic husband.
I should apologize, should clean up the mess I made, but instead, I go up to our room, shower, and then slide into bed, tossing and turning in a fury. Nothing feels right. The pillow is too lumpy, the sheets too cold.
My head is throbbing, even when I close my eyes and try to relax. I should smoke, should light up a cigarette and let myself calm down.
I haven’t smoked in years, giving it up when my family died, but I crave it. Just like I crave him.
I roll to my side and force my eyes shut, telling myself to go the fuck to sleep, to not give in.
I won’t fucking give in.
15
ANGEL
The broken pots sit on the floor of my greenhouse, my stubbornness not allowing me to clean them up. And I don’t go to our bed either, spending my night sleeping fitfully with Bane in the guardhouse.
Bane snores quite loudly and he talks in his sleep. All the usual things you’d expect. There was something about bread and eyeballs in there. I don’t know. And halfway through the night, he got up and disappeared, leaving the bed empty.