Page 47 of Mercy in Betrayal

Really, really angry.

I don’t think it has anything to do with me, though.

Is it safe to fly during a snowstorm? It’s vicious out there, the wind whipping a bitter mix of ice and snow against the fuselage in a high whine that grates against my nerves. The storm hit on our way to LaGuardia, an airport within sight of the Manhattan skyline.

The vehicle we were traveling in drove us directly into a private terminal, where we were then able to dash across a tarmac to a waiting private jet—something Enzo referred to with satisfaction as a Dassault Falcon 900, whatever that is.

All I know is that even with Enzo’s man holding an umbrella in front of us, the snow stung my face with a thousand tiny cuts as we made our way to the plane.

They’re nothing compared to the cut of his betrayal, though. I can’t believe I haven’t bled out by now.

Reset. I rock forward slightly.

Enzo leans forward now, his tight expression softening slightly, and brushes my fingers away from the metal buckle as he pulls the belt across my hips. “Relax.”

I turn my face to stare out the window. “I need Clementine.”

“Who’s Clementine?”

“My cat. The one at the church.”

“Oh, that’s right. I have someone taking care of him.”

“No, you don’t understand. I need him.” My fingers twist in my lap, hanging on to imaginary fur.

Reset. Reset.

“What do you mean, you need him?”

I shake my head, not wanting to explain again that he’s my service animal. I mentioned it briefly when we first met, and Enzo was polite enough not to ask questions, but now…after everything that’s happened…I can imagine him making fun of my anxiety disorder, or worse, keeping Clem from me intentionally in some misguided attempt to ‘cure’ me.

He eyes me for a minute, waiting for an explanation that doesn’t come, before sighing in defeat as an attendant comes down the aisle with drinks.

“He’ll be safe at home when we get there, Rowan. We’re not bringing a cat on our honeymoon. Here. Drink up. It’ll relax you.” He hands me a flute of champagne, watching over the brim of his own glass until I take a sip.

I don’t need to relax.

I don’t say the words, but I think them as I lower the glass and rest my head against the seat back. I need things to reset, but nothing is resetting. I need to go back to where I still had choices, when Enzo was just a guy who bought coffee at the Koffee Kart and not my husband, staring at me as though he just won the bid for the blue-ribbon bull at the fair.

I don’t think life has ever really given me choices.

Husband.

I close my eyes to shut Enzo out and roll the word around my consciousness. What will it mean to be a wife to a husband? We’ve had sex already—I think I can handle that, although the idea of giving him access to my body again while I’m so angry is simultaneously hot and repellent.

But what about all the other things? Will we share a bedroom? Drink coffee together in the morning? Will he drive me to school in the morning? Or will he even allow me to continue my education? What about children? Will he expect me to have kids right away?

A warm hand covers the one holding the flute of champagne, making me realize it’s shaking. Enzo takes it smoothly from my grip and sets it down. I look up at him to see his forehead creased with concern. “Everything will be all right, Rowan. I promise.”

I nod.

Then I shake my head, my nerves drawing tighter and tighter. I squeeze the arms of the seat, trying without success to transfer some of the tension, then link my fingers together and flex outward, making them crack. The sound does something to me. It’s like ice breaking, the lines spreading outward in ever-increasing circumference, the bottom falling out beneath me.

There’s no safe zone.

“It’s not okay,” I whisper.

“What?” He leans forward.

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