Is it his?
The idea turns everything black at the edges.
Russo’s child.
Russo touching her, laying claim to her, putting a baby in her body while she smiled for photographs and planned a future that had nothing to do with me. A fast wedding suddenly makes perfect sense. A neat, polished solution to an unexpected pregnancy. And Russo would want to marry her before the child is born. Otherwise people could say it’s a bastard, one thing that isn’t taken lightly in our world.
My hand tightens around the edge of the counter.
She notices that. Elizabeth always notices every shift in me, even when she pretends not to. She’s the only one who ever does.
Her eyes narrow. “What’s wrong with you now?”
I let out a slow breath through my nose. “How long had you been engaged?”
She blinks, clearly thrown. “What?”
“To Dante Russo.” My voice is flat. “How long?”
Suspicion flickers across her face. “Why do you care?”
Because I’m suddenly seeing every piece arranged in a pattern I want to destroy. Because I want very badly to be wrong, and if I’m right, I may not survive hearing it.
“I asked you a question.”
Her chin lifts at once. “A month.”
A month.
That’s far too fast.
My gaze drops, traitorous and hungry for proof, to the line of her blouse again before I drag it back to her face. She follows it.And in that instant, I know she understands exactly what I’m thinking.
The air in the kitchen changes.
Her fingers curl around the edge of the counter stool. “Don’t.”
I push off the counter and take a step toward her. “Elizabeth?—”
“Don’t.” Louder now. Sharper. Her face goes pale in a way that has nothing to do with salami or panic attacks. “Whatever insane conclusion you’re jumping to in that head of yours, keep it to yourself.”
But now I can’t stop. The clues are everywhere. The avoidance. The food. The wedding. The way she guards herself with both hands and fury. The way her clothes suddenly seem chosen not for style, but for concealment.
And, God, if she’s carrying Russo’s baby—his heir…
Something savage rises in me, so hot I almost choke on it.
I smile then, but there is nothing kind in it.
“That eager to marry him, were you?” I ask softly. “I was almost impressed by how quickly you found yourself another savior.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?”
“No.” She stands so abruptly the stool scrapes against the floor. “You don’t.”
The tears that were gone are suddenly back, brightening her eyes, and for one fractured moment I cannot tell if they come from fear, grief, or rage. Maybe all three.
