Ford’s finger. Looking like fresh, severed skin.
Time fractures.
I don’t hear the approach until I feel strong hands already on me. I’m enveloped in the clean scent of vodka, smoke, and hisearthy scent that makes my toes curl. He had come in from out of the shadows of the Estate, Archie behind him with his gun half-drawn.
Hayden grabs my arms. “Martine—”
But I can’t move.
I saw it.
It’s his.
My knees give out before I realize I’m falling, and those safe arms catch me, pulling me close to his hard chest. Muscles and warmth are all I feel, and I cower in like a child, folding my hands into my chest and gasping a sob.
All of these weeks, I’ve repressed. I’ve behaved. I’ve held my head high and searched for ways to please Hayden, at the expense of mourning my own brothers, but now it’s here. The pain is ripping through my chest as I can barely control my sobs.
The marble is cold. It bites through the silk of my dress as I collapse farther onto the steps, my hands trembling against the stone as I nearly slip through his arms. My breath won’t come right. It stutters, catches in my chest like it’s snagged on a wire. Everything tilts. Everything warps. The lights blur. The sounds smear.
Hayden drops to his knees in front of me, hands on me, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.
He brushes my hair out of my face to grip my cheeks, trying to get my eyes to reach his, but they just can’t seem to.
“Darling,” he says, his voice firm yet low, “look at me.”
I can’t. I can’t lift my head.
Hayden moves quickly, instructing the butler to remove the guests.
Luckily, guests are already leaving.
I glance up and see Hayden, his face stone-cold, standing in the center of the foyer, issuing quiet, deliberate orders to staff. No panic. Just control.
He gestures to security. The front gates. The perimeter. Everyone is being escorted out. Quietly, efficiently. No one dares argue.
They came for champagne and spectacle.
They’re leaving with blood on their heels.
He brushes the hair from my face, tucks it behind my ear with sure fingers. His hands are warm. Steady. My body is not. My breath comes in shallow, broken gasps. I can’t seem to stop it.
“Darling, breathe. Look at me,” he says again, more urgently. His thumb presses against my cheekbone. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
I look up.
His face is too close, too sharp, too calm for what I’ve just seen. And I hate him for it.
That was Ford.
That was his ring.
That was his finger.
Something inside me cracks wide open, and I think I’m going to scream, but nothing comes out.
Something tells me my husband has something to do with this.
Behind us, Dale is yelling.
