Page 39

“I hate this,” I said against her hair. “I hate the idea of you going back there. Alone. Unprotected.”

“I know.” Her voice was soft, soothing. “But I have to. Just for a little while.”

I pulled back enough to look at her, my hands framing her face. “If anything happens—anything at all—you call me. Immediately. You understand?”

“I will.”

“I mean it, Madigan. If he so much as looks at you wrong, you call me.”

“I will,” she repeated, her eyes steady on mine. “I promise.”

I kissed her then, hard and desperate, pouring everything I couldn’t say into it. The fear, the possessiveness, the need to keep her safe. She kissed me back just as fiercely, her fingers tangling in my hair, her body pressed against mine.

When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard.

“When?” I asked, my forehead resting against hers.

“Tomorrow morning. I’ll go first thing.”

“And you’ll come back?”

“I’ll come back.” She kissed me again, softer this time. “I promise, Salvatore. I’ll come back to you.”

I wanted to believe her. I had to believe her.

Because the alternative—the thought of losing her now after everything—was unbearable.

“Okay,” I said finally, the word tasting like surrender. “Okay.”

She smiled, small and sad, and I pulled her back into my arms, holding her as if I could keep her there through sheer force of will.

We spent the rest of the evening tangled together, neither of us wanting to let go. I made love to her slowly, reverently, memorizing every sound she made, every place my hands touched. As if I could imprint myself on her, make sure she carried me with her when she left.

Later, as she slept curled against me, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

Tomorrow she would go back to her father’s house.

And I would have to let her.

The thought made me feel as if I were being torn apart from the inside out.

But I had no choice.

All I could do was trust that she would keep her promise.

That she would come back to me.

CHAPTER TEN

Three days.

She had been gone for three days, and I was losing my mind.

The hotel room felt like a cage. I’d paced every inch so many times I could have walked it blindfolded. The carpet was probably worn thin from my restless movements, back and forth, back and forth, like a caged animal waiting for something—anything—to happen.

My phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark and silent. Mocking me.

I checked it obsessively. Every few minutes, sometimes every few seconds. Picking it up, unlocking it, staring at the empty notification screen before setting it back down. Then doing it all over again.