Page 21 of Mercy in Betrayal

“I would have thought you would have preferred the drama and elegance of St. Patrick,” I jest after a quick glance.

Carina's expression is humorless as she responds. “Our Lady of Pompeii is Italian. Luca and I intend to marry and announce the strength of our union. You’ll need to bring a date.”

My sister is getting married. All I can do is nod after a beat. “I can do that.”

A date. I can already picture Rowan on my arm. Before I showered last night, I had taken a moment to sniff my suit jacket. Rowan’s perfume had clung to the material.

I can already tell she’s going to drive me crazy. Maybe in a good way, though.

In order to win her fully, I’m going to have to woo her in ways I’ve never bothered with before. I think I’m going to have to be soft and gentle with her. When the smell of her perfume hit me last night, something primal reared its head. I had to fight with myself not to go to her place in the Upper East Side and claim her.

But that won’t work.

If they had the smallest inkling of my goals, Cassidy and Evie would move heaven and earth to keep their precious bird away from me. So I would need to ensure Rowan O’Rourke fell for me, and hard.

I’ll just have to control myself until I know she’s caught in a cage of her own making.

“Any idea as to whom?” Carina asks, pulling me out of my musing.

I don’t answer her.

“See? We are more alike than you think. You don’t tell me shit either.” I have no idea what she means. Now, I’m wondering what she isn’t telling me, but before I can ask, she marches from the room, flinging the door open so hard that it hits one of the bookshelves.

One of my guards is there at the open door, and I hold up a hand, telling him to let her go.

I’ll find out what secrets my sister is keeping from me.

Chapter 8

Rowan

Night has often let its curtains fall and surround me in my grief,

It has swallowed me as a wave would, weighed me with sorrow.

The words linger on my tongue like the bitterest of brews as I lean against the bar in the coffee cart, reading from the thick textbook before me. The pages are paper thin, and I turn them with care, engrossed in the Mu’allaqat, one of seven pre-Islamic Arabic poems from the sixth century.

It’s lovely. Haunting. So much more than I expected when I enrolled in this course.

Even though I’m only attending part-time, the classes here at Columbia are no joke. I expected a few, at least, to be relatively easy, entry-level courses, but only one is actually an introductory class. For my first year, I’m expected to take literature classes for two cultures other than English.

I chose Middle Eastern Literature to begin with.

“Um, excuse me. Miss.”

Gaze unfocused, I straighten to find a man around my age standing before me, peering in through the open window of the cart. “Hi.”

I swipe a hand through my hair and push my book out of the way. “Hello.”

“Can I get an Americano?”

“Certainly…” I struggle for the right expression. “That’ll be…coming right up.” Turning, I begin to make the drink.

“So, where are you from?”

I don’t answer. I’ve had a number of such questions, and I usually ignore them. Evie and Cassidy warned me—the less information I offer, the better.

“Scotland? Scotland is beautiful. Not that I’ve actually been, but I’ve seen pictures. I want to go. It’s on my bucket list. What brought you here?”

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