Page 112 of Possession

No matter the reason, I’m here. B hasn’t broken his promise, and he’s been glued to my side. He might pretend to run the legit business for the Marinos, but I know what he really does. My healing bruises are proof of how women are treated within the cartel, so dragging me along for the ride is probably not standard procedure in the organization.

He doesn’t complain about the weight of my suitcase when he tosses it into the trunk of the cab like it’s a pillow packed with feathers. The sun has set on New York City as we sit in rush-hour traffic.

I’m no idiot and can take a hint. My husband doesn’t feel like talking. I’m also not sure what it says that nothing has made me this uncomfortable since the first few days of our marriage. It’s also not like me to sit back and not demand answers. But the thing is, I don’t really care why we’re here.

All I want to know is why my husband has turned into a ball of ice-cold nerves.

I watch him stare out his cab window at the people, the traffic, and the hustle and bustle of life in the city. I’ve only been here a few times, but I love New York City. It’s different than living on the West Coast. Especially the way I grew up. There’s an energy that’s unmatched.

Much like the unparalleled energy emanating from the man who has consumed every part of me.

I reach over to grip his hand in mine. He turns, and his dark eyes mirror his body language.

Tense and agitated.

I can’t help it. I don’t care where we are or who we’re around. I’ve been patient all day.

“When are you going to tell me why we’re here?” I demand.

He pulls my hand to his lips where he presses them to my knuckles. “Trust me, sooner than I want to.”

The frustration I’ve tried my best to manage all day bubbles over. “What does that mean?”

He pulls in a breath but shakes his head as our cab turns into a circle drive of one of the poshest hotels in Manhattan. He lets go of my hand and tags me around the neck. When he kisses me, it’s unlike ever before. It’s desperate and fraught with anxiety that is not at all like the man I’ve experienced since my wedding day. My husband isn’t afraid of anything—not even guns being drawn at the dinner table.

I’m breathless when he finally lets me go and tips his forehead to mine as the car comes to a halt at the entrance. I don’t look away from his stormy, dark eyes as he baits me with more promises. “Let’s check into our room. I’ll make time to explain.”

“Make time?” I echo, but my door is opened behind me.

The concierge calls for me and offers a hand. “Ma’am.”

B is out of the cab and slips a wad of cash to the driver.

If the hotel is posh outside, opulence clings to every surface on the inside. The bellhop follows us with our bags, and we check in as Mr. and Mrs. Torres. When we got to the airport, B had my old passport. I didn’t think about it until today, but I haven’t had anything updated. Not my driver’s license, passport, or my favorite magazines. I don’t even know Damian’s address.

Not that I go anywhere. But I certainly can’t live the rest of my life locked away in the cliff-side estate that really belongs to the dead man my father sold me to.

More information to demand by the time we get home.

Home.

Wow. It’s the first time I’ve thought about that place as home.

B grips my hand as the elevator zips to the sky. It’s been a long day, and all I’ve eaten is airplane food. First class might be a nice step up while flying, but I need a real meal.

The bellhop moves our luggage into our room and is grateful for his fat tip.

Finally. For the first time since this morning in our bathroom, I’m alone with my husband.

I toss my purse on the king-size bed and am about to demand to know everything, but when I turn, B is standing in the middle of the room staring at me with a cell plastered to his ear. “Yeah. I’m here. What’s the status? Okay, I need to take care of something. Give me twenty minutes. I’ll be ready.”

Ready?

Ready for what?

He’s barely disconnected his call when I decide that I’ve had enough. “Who was that? And what will you be ready for?”

He drags a violent hand through his thick hair before looking at his watch, confirming he really is on the clock. Then he moves.

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