Page 74 of Brutal Vows

I wrap my arms around him and drop my face into his fur. No tears slip from my tired eyes, but sobs tighten my chest. I cough to clear away the discomfort, but it refuses to go away, so I pet Scraps and murmur whatever reassuring words come to mind.

He’ll never be alone. I’m here. I’ll never leave him. He’s safe. I’ll protect him.

Ermanno said he’d protect me. He said he’d never leave me.

Yet here I sit, abandoned and alone.

Red-hot, boiling rage consumes me from the inside out.

I trusted him. I married him.

And he left me.

My phone. The tracking app.

I’ll find him and make him pay for abandoning me.

I lift my head and scan the room. My purse lies on the small table against the far wall.

“C’mon, Scraps. Let’s go bite and scratch asovranountil he can’t walk away from us anymore,” I snarl.

He perks up and jumps off the bed when I swing my feet to the floor.

Scraps doesn’t have a violent bone in his body, but I do.

I need to hit something.

My husband.

I need to bury my fist in my husband’s handsome, lying face.

Natalie rushes into the room. She must have been the woman whose frantic voice I heard. I ignore her and pop open the blood-stained purse. Dark red splotches cover my dress and are caked under my nails, but the worst of the crimson from my hands is gone.

I yank my phone out of my purse and jab the screen until the app opens.

He’s close. About to enter the hospital.

I need him closer. Now.

With a snarl so feral I sound more animal than human, I pass Scraps’s lead over to Natalie and elbow her out of the way before stomping into the hall.

My bare feet slap against the frigid floor as I run toward the dot on the map. Bloody, tangled locks of hair trail behind me. I glimpse my reflection as I pass by an open door, but my disheveled, wild state doesn’t shock me.

My insides feel just as frazzled and furious.

I dart around corner after corner and shoulder past countless people on my quest to catch the dot. It doesn’t matter that it moves toward me. Every second we’re apart is another second I’m not burying my fist in his face.

I weave past a nurse and glance at my phone.

He’s in the adjacent hall. I brace myself, lunge around the corner, launch my entire body through the air at him, and swing in midair.

The snapshot of his surprised, bloody features will always linger in my mind.

Pain blasts up my arm as my knuckles connect with his iron jaw, and although he staggers from the blow, he wraps his arms around me and pivots, catching himself on the wall so we don’t both tumble to the ground. I hook my legs around his hips and swing again, aiming for his head, but he yanks me flush against him and buries his face against my neck.

My punch glances along the wall.

The rage pouring through me demands more. I pummel his upper back with the side of my fist as I scratch and claw at his side with my trapped hand.

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