As the closet light came on, Morgan felt a surge of jealousy, hating that Drakon and his beautiful, hard, honed body was leaving her to go meet Bronwyn.

When he emerged a few minutes later, buckling the belt on his trousers, buttoning his shirt and tucking it into the waistband, Morgan felt almost sick.

Suddenly she felt like the young bride she’d been five years ago … uncertain, insecure, overwhelmed by her new life as Drakon Xanthis’s American bride.

Drakon must have seen her fear because his brow furrowed as he gazed down at her. “There’s no need to be threatened by Bronwyn. She works for me, but you’re my wife.”

But she’d been his wife before, and it hadn’t helped her feel secure, or close to him. And while she’d been home alone for twelve, fourteen, sometimes sixteen hours a day, he’d been at the office with Bronwyn. Even if there was nothing sexual between him and Bronwyn, by virtue of being his trusted right hand, Bronwyn still got to spend time with Drakon … time Morgan would love to have. Not because Morgan couldn’t be alone and needed Drakon to prop her up, but because she loved Drakon and enjoyed his company more than anyone else.

“I just don’t want to feel as if I have to fight Bronwyn for you anymore,” she said quietly, calmly, grateful that her voice could sound so steady when her heart was racing so fast.

“But you don’t have to fight Bron for me. You never have.”

And while this conversation was brutal, it was also necessary and long overdue. They should have talked about Bronwyn years ago. Morgan should have told Drakon how uncomfortable she was around her when they first married, but she hadn’t, too afraid of displeasing him. And so the wound had festered, and her fear grew, until their entire relationship had become stunted and toxic.

“You love me?” she whispered.

“How can you doubt it?”

She bit down into her lip, holding back her fears, and her need to be reassured, knowing that her fears were irrational. Drakon wouldn’t be here, helping her, if he didn’t want to be. Drakon wouldn’t have brought in Rowan to rescue her father if he didn’t care about her. It was time she stopped panicking and stopped allowing her insecurities to get the upper hand. Drakon loved her. Drakon had always loved her. But he wasn’t a woman … he was a man, a Greek man that had been raised to conceal vulnerabilities and avoid emotion. “I don’t doubt it,” she whispered. “I know you love me. Without question.”

“There is no competition between you and Bron,” he said roughly, his handsome, chiseled features hard.

She nodded, wanting to believe it, needing to believe it, but as he’d told her once, actions spoke louder than words. If he stayed at his office night after night until ten, making decisions, talking with Bronwyn, how was Morgan supposed to feel?

She felt a twinge of panic at the idea of returning to that life, but she had to be strong and confident. She believed in Drakon, and she had to believe that Drakon would do what was right for her … for them.