Page 26 of Love Her

I’d even read the author before.

Then—I rocked forward quickly, holding the book evenly out, curious as hell to which well-written passage it would naturally fall open to—did Isabelle value well written sex?—when I missed my chance because a square bookmark fluttered out.

I picked this up off my lap, and realized it was almost like a polaroid—and—it was an ultrasound.

Of a baby.

Dated a few weeks before Isabelle died.

“Oh, Rhaim,” I whispered, my heart breaking for him, as I traced my thumb over the small curled up figure pressed against the image’s side—and when I moved my thumb, I realized the ultrasound also had the name of a doctor—theDoctor. Enzo Genziani.

Everyone in a certain sphere of my father’s life saw the same man, who wouldn’t blink at pulling out a bullet or sewing up a knife-wound.

Then I realized wherever Rhaim had gone—he was done talking.

I slammed the photo back into the book, carefully replaced it exactly where it belonged, and then rolled back to the precise spot I’d been in when I’d woken.

Rhaim came backinto the room and stood by the bed watching me breathe for a minute—I could tell by the shadow he cast over me.

“You’re only pretending to be asleep,” he said.

I blinked my eyes open and sat up. “Who was that then?”

“A friend who brought you clothing and a phone. And who would never tell anyone that you were here—unless they were given several million dollars.” He was in wrinkled jeans and didn’t have a shirt on, and looked thoughtful, as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

I moved to lean against him, pressing my chest against his back—I wanted to touch as much of his skin as could for as long as I had.

“When do I need to go back to my apartment, Rhaim?” I asked, because if he told me the better option would be us, running away, tonight…it wouldn’t take much to convince me.

He leaned his head back to rock against me. “Depends on how angry you want your actual father to be.”

“Fuck him,” I growled. It was his fault things were going down like this.

“He’s even older than your new fiancée—and he’s trying to do right by you, the only way he knows how.” I stiffened with Rhaim’s betrayal, and yet he still added, “Really.”

“You’re taking his side?”

“No. I just don’t have the luxury of not thinking,” he said, then reached his hand back to run it into my hair.

“And now you’re calling me stupid?” I said, my voice going high—and his fingers curled against my scalp.

“Did I say that?” he asked. I shook my head no, and he relaxed. “You’re allowed to be pissed at him. But just merely being angry won’t get you anything you want in life. Not without a shit-ton of forethought behind it.”

I nodded, because I thought I understood. A little.

“If you run away from this wedding your father’s got planned, you’ll look flighty. Emotional. And they’ll use that against you for the rest of your life. I’m not saying you need to enjoy it—far from it—but I need you to be patient. And trust me.”

This time, I nodded more strongly.

But I was still mad—at everything.

And I wanted to kindle that anger—because once I left this apartment, it would be the only thing I had left to keep me warm at night.

That, and all of my memories.

I reached a hand around to place it on his stomach suggestively, feeling the faint trail of fur there and knowing where it led—and the action made Rhaim snort.

“Still hungry?” he asked, and I answered with the truth, whispering it into his ear.

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