Page 37 of Golden Burn

“Am I safe here?”

“No one will come for us. No one can find us.”

“Promise?” She might as well have reached across and choked me. No. I don’t make promises. Not in regards to safety. So, if the unlikely occurs, I won’t have to fall on my own sword and deal with her disappointment. “I’ll be back later tonight. Get some rest. We have a big day tomorrow.”

I turn, severing the conversation, and stride out the door, sweating under my suit.

I’m going to have to tell her soon; I know this. There’s only so long I can keep her in the dark about my past and my burnt soul, and my inability to make any promises about her safety.

There’s only so long I can keep her away before the demons crawl up from hell and whisper in her ear.

“This is a logistical nightmare,” Ford mumbles as he pours over the itinerary for tomorrow.

“You’ve never had a problem before,” I say, sipping from another glass filled with smooth gin and a single slice of orange.

“Yeah, when I had to just look after you. With Etta around, it makes it harder. The African wilderness is impossible to predict.”

Dom peers up from his laptop, his brown skin dotted with sweat. “Cerbera won’t find us here. We’ve made sure of it. Besides, it’s too close to the wedding, and he’s busy enough. I’m sure our message has been received thanks to our little helper.” Referring to our intruder.

The memory of Harriet coming to me in the gym, her face ashen with panic, and the way her hands shook in the snow while she stayed beside me, waiting for any glimpse of the person who had made her scared in the first place, forces me to finish my drink.

Sour bile pulses at the edge of my esophagus, burning, bubbling. It’s a mixture of anger and fear. Anger at myself and the people that put me on this path, and fear I’ve made the wrong choice, again, which will inevitably lead to more death, more heartbreak, more pain.

God. Gen would be so upset to know what I’ve done and will do.

Too bad I can’t ask her forgiveness. She’s buried six feet under. Nothing but a pile of yellow bones. Alone and cold and eternal.

“Did you see the plans that Cerbera sent through?” Dom asks, pulling me back to the present.

I shift in my seat. “How much am I going to hate it?”

“It’s not as bad as I expected. He wants it in Rome. Church first, then a ceremony at a restaurant—I think it’s owned by a relative of his. Small numbers, only fifty people. His security. Red wine over white. Fish for dinner and lemon cake for dessert. And he wants to give Etta away. Ceremony entirely in Italian.”

“No church. The restaurant can hold both the ceremony and reception. Harriet doesn’t like fish, so it will have to be something different. Don’t care about the wine. Limited security from both sides. Twenty people, not fifty. English. And he’s not getting his fucking hands on Etta. Ford can do it.”

My face is hot. My temples are pulsing. The eyepatch I’m wearing is pooling with sweat. Dom and Ford’s baffled stares only intensify it. “What?” I snap. Ford raises his hands and goes back to looking over the itinerary. Dom tilts his head, his knowing eyes scanning the emotions I’m trying to suppress.

“So, Harriet seemed to enjoy herself a bit more on the plane,” he says casually.

I swap my gin for a glass of water. “And?”

“And you seem irritated.”

I rub the side of my head, a headache beginning to form. “Spit it out, Dom.”

“I’ve just noticed that she seems to be getting under your skin, which, if I’m honest, no one but us has ever been able to do since—”

I put my hand up, not wanting him to finish the sentence. “I get it.”

“Do you? Because we agreed that going ahead with this plan would only be possible if you and Harriet remained enemies. She cannot—andyoucannot—develop an emotional attachment. Cerbera will sniff it from a mile away and use it to his advantage.”

Ford lifts his head from whatever he’s reading. “If you have a crush on Etta, you’re going to have to be honest. Because that’s an entirely different shit show that we have to be prepared for.”

“Please,” I drawl, finishing the glass of water. “The only reason she has gotten under my skin is because she’s determined. She’s impulsive, reckless and too intelligent for her own good.”

“She’s also fucking beautiful and way out of your league,” Ford mutters.

My patience thinning, I push back from the table and stand. “Is there anything else, or do I have to stay and listen to your plan for something that will never, ever happen?”

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