Page 18 of Mercy in Betrayal

I don’t know why I lie. I just know I want to hug the knowledge of my rescuer to myself a little longer, instead of offering it up to be dissected and analyzed. I feel the need to protect the memory, cherish it—as though telling anyone would make it disappear.

And I also don’t want to tell Vivi I was mugged, anymore than I wanted to tell Cassidy or Evie.

Vivi: Different good or different bad?

Rowan: Definitely different good.

Movement on the terrace outside my window catches my eye, and I lift myself up on my knees to peek through a sliver in my curtains. It’s Evie and Cassidy.

They argue, Cassidy pacing and gesturing in his anger while Evie stands cold and stiff with her arms crossed over her chest.

Fire and gasoline.

I pull the curtains closed.

Rowan: I’ll talk to you later.

I settle back into bed, this time with the book of poetry I keep on the nightstand. Tennyson. I flip through until I find the page I’ve read so many times the edges are crinkled and worn.

The Lady of Shalott.

I’ve been drawn to it, especially since moving to New York. The story of Elaine of Astolat, forced to live a life of isolation, either by some curse or imprisonment, is one that always made my heart beat a bit faster.

With indignation and sadness, of course.

Her knight in shining armor—her Lancelot—arrived too late to save her. I hate that part of the poem. It’s the same in Malory’s version. Why is there never a happy ending?

I close the book, my thumb holding my spot. My Lancelot arrived in time today, though. He was there exactly when I needed him, rescuing me from a criminal.

I never learned his name!

The realization strikes me suddenly like a physical pain. How will I find him again?

I snort. As if I’d ever have the courage to go looking for him.

Damn. Reopening the book, I try to read. My fingers trace the letters, my eyes read them…but my brain obscures their meaning, refusing to comprehend anything save one line.

I am half sick of shadows.

It’s like I’m looking into a mirror, seeing a reflection of the world around me rather than being a participant in it.

I toss the book to the bed beside me. Like Elaine, I’m tired of shadows. I want to be part of this world around me.

His face was the realest thing there was today. His eyes, a warm amber shade, are seared into my memory. His lips were full and soft, making me curious how they would feel against my own.

It’s not the only thing I wondered about.

My fingers travel over my stomach, lifting my gown until I feel skin. I can still remember how strong his hand had been when he wrapped it around my elbow and led me gently to sit down.

I wanted more. I wanted both of his hands on me; wanted to feel them on my waist, on my hips, on every part of me…

I’ve never craved someone’s touch before, but it’s a need I can’t deny now.

My hand slips lower, into my panties and further, stroking lightly against the sensitive flesh above my labia.

I close my eyes and imagine it’s his hand. His finger.

My brow crinkling slightly, I pause. What if he hadn’t taken me directly home earlier? What if…I draw my bottom lip between my teeth, my imagination wilding out.

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