“Or what?”
The door opened. A man stepped inside wearing a dark civilian jacket, rain shining on his shoulders, a duffel bag in his hand. His hair was shorter than I remembered. His face looked leaner. But his eyes—cold, focused, and dangerously calm—were Daniel’s. My husband was home. Marissa’s phone slipped from her hand and cracked against the floor. Evelyn turned pale.
“Daniel?”
He looked at my bleeding lip. Then at the red mark on my cheek. Then at Trent’s hand gripping my arm.
“Take your hand off my wife,” Daniel said.
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