With This Ring (To Have And To Hold Duet #1) - Natasha Knight Page 0,83

in Michael’s blood. Tears streaming from her eyes as Marcus moves behind her. Until the end. Until the very end when he brings the knife to her throat and whispers something I can’t hear. Something that makes her mouth fall open as he grins like Satan himself and slides the knife across her throat. And I swear I hear it. I hear the ripping of skin. Hear the pouring of blood.

“No!”

I jolt upright and the moment I do, it’s like I rammed my head into a fucking brick wall.

“Fuck.”

I look around. Remember.

After I left the house, I went to a strip club. I don’t even know why. I’m not even a little interested in those women. And then there was whiskey. A lot of whiskey before someone called my uncle and he came. I tried to strangle him when he called Scarlett a whore. He pulled a gun on me.

Which explains why I’m in my room at the Naples house with a fucking pounding headache. I’m actually not sure if I’m hungover or still drunk.

I get up and have to hold on while the world rights itself.

“I figure if I’m drunk enough, it won’t hurt as much.”

I get to the bathroom, take a piss then wash my hands and my face. I look like hell. Like death barely warmed over. I’m surprised the mirror doesn’t crack.

“I figure if I’m drunk enough, it won’t hurt as much.”

Scarlett’s voice repeats that sentence for the tenth fucking time. I remember when she said it. How I thought it sounded odd. And I think about last night. About how I felt when I was inside her. When I realized the truth.

Betrayed. That’s the feeling. It hardens you.

“I figure if I’m drunk enough, it won’t hurt as much.”

I open the medicine cabinet and swallow four aspirin. It won’t help, I already know.

I’m just walking out of the bathroom when the bedroom door opens. My uncle is standing there with a strange look on his face. He’s not dressed in his usual suit but in his pajamas. I’m not sure I’ve seen him in anything but a suit since I was a kid.

“What time is it?”

“Early. Seven.”

I glance to the window. The sun is a line of deep orange in the break of dark clouds that still dirty the sky. I turn back to my uncle, sobering up as I take in the pajamas, the expression on his face.

Warning bells ring in my ears. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.

“What is it? What’s happened?” I hear myself ask.

“There was a problem.”

My heart races as my brain processes. “What problem?”

“You should have told me where you were going.”

“What. Problem.”

“Sit down.”

“Fucking tell me.”

“There was an ambush.”

“What?” My stomach bottoms out.

“All the soldiers are dead.”

Dead. “Scarlett?”

“They were probably looking for you.”

“Scarlett?” I ask again through gritted teeth.

“It’s a good thing you weren’t there.”

“Scarlett!” I demand.

“Gone.”

36

Scarlett

We drive for hours. Or at least it feels like hours. All I hear in the trunk of this old, beat up sedan is rain. All I feel is every bump, every tiny stone, every pothole on the road.

My wrists are bound behind my back. My shoulders and arms ache and the zip ties they bound me with cut into the skin of my wrists. I’ve managed to turn myself, so my feet touch one of the rear lights. I’m not sure what I hope to accomplish though. Kicking out the light? And then what?

After a sharp, bumpy turn and a long road of what must be gravel, the car slows to a stop. My heartbeat picks up. I hadn’t realized it had calmed at all during the drive. I hear men outside, smell cigarette smoke. They’re speaking Spanish. That’s the one thing of importance to note. Cartel soldiers? Makes sense. Most important question is what am I to them? Their enemy’s wife or the cartel’s princess?

I’m going to guess the former since I’m riding naked in the trunk.

Someone pops the trunk and although dawn has hardly broken, I have to squint after the complete darkness of the trunk. I hear seagulls overhead and smell fish. As I start to move, the man who punched me, reaches in to lift me out.

We’ve arrived at a harbor. A crappy, run-down little harbor nothing like the ones tourists go to. The boats at the docks look like they had their best days a century ago.

I smell dead fish and cigarette smoke as I stand shivering in the cold morning air, my feet bare on the gravel,