Page 27 of Beautiful Sinners

“Do you?” he snaps.

“Yes, I do. And stop being a jealous asshat. You know how I feel about you.”

Using his grip on my hand, he yanks me forward, knocking the breath right out of me when I slam into his chest.

“I used to know how Aoife felt about me, but you’re not her.”

“The voice in my head says I am.”

His head jerks back, perplexed. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“I think that’s best.” Going up on my toes, I kiss the underside of his chin. “I will always be your Aoife, and you will always be my knight in tarnished armor.”

He huffs, but it’s filled with self-deprecating humor. “Don’t remind me,” he says at the nickname I used to call him. He caresses my tender, swollen cheek. “And you know damn well that I’d follow you into hell if you asked.”

“I’m asking. I can’t do this without you. Let’s go get Alana, and then we can figure out everything else afterward.”

He tucks my head under his chin when I hug him. Constantine is my sanctuary, but Hendrix is my strength.

“I hate fucking Texas,” he grumbles.

CHAPTER 10

I grip my armrest when the plane violently shudders.

“It’s just turbulence. And you’re crushing my hand.”

Relaxing the white-knuckle grip I have on Hendrix’s hand, I mumble, “Sorry.”

The past hour has been spent in stilted silence. No one has spoken a word. Not after we left Cillian’s house. Not in the SUV as we were driven to a private airfield. And not when we boarded Cillian’s luxury Gulfstream G700.

As soon as the plane was airborne, Constantine disappeared into the back room where there’s a bed. Tristan has been brooding and staring out the window, and Hendrix has been quietly sitting beside me, eyes closed but not asleep, whereas I have been trying not to freak the hell out. I never liked flying.

Needing to do something to distract myself from my nauseous stomach, I unclip the seat belt and stand up.

“I’m going to stretch my legs,” I tell Hendrix.

I practically climb over him to get out from my window seat because his long legs are blocking my way.

One of the staff, a pretty, dark-haired woman, approaches me. “Can I get you anything, Miss Fitzpatrick?”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her my last name is Carmichael, not Fitzpatrick. It feels weird to be called my real name again after a decade of being called Synthia Carmichael, just like it’s weird to think of Alana as Deirdre and not Mom.

“Is there a way I can send a text message to someone without, you know…” I make a descending motion with my hand to indicate a plane going down and crashing.

The woman’s ruby-red lips spread in a smile. “Of course. The plane has Wi-Fi, so feel free to use your phone to text or access the internet.”

Uh… I look down at my borrowed men’s clothes that have no pockets in the sweatpants.

“I lost my phone.”

I assume I lost everything I brought with me to Hendrix’s family estate, including my laptop and backpack that contained my journal. I couldn’t care less about most of it, but the journal is a completely different story. Ten years of my life, my dreams, my fractured memories, exist on those pages. Losing it is like losing a part of myself again.

“There’s a laptop you can use, or you can borrow my phone.”

So freaking nice. “A laptop would be perfect, thank you.”

“Right this way. May I offer you a drink or something to eat while you work? It’ll be another two hours before we land.”

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