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“You are my wife,” I growl, not amused by the exasperation in her tone.

The word hangs between us. Heavy. Loaded.

“But what about my wants, Domenico?” She pauses. “Or my rules?”

15

Kira

My skull feels like someone’s taken a hammer to it. Every pulse behind my eyes sends a fresh wave of nausea rolling through my stomach, and the soft click of the car’s turn signal might as well be a gunshot.

Apparently, a whiskey hangover turns me dramatic. Or maybe it’s all hangovers. Not that I’d know since this is my first one. All I know is that if I never touch whiskey again, it’ll still be too soon.

The morning light cuts through the tinted windows of Domenico’s car, and I squint against it, pressing my fingertips to my temples. Even after brushing my teeth three times, my mouth tastes like I’ve been chewing on cotton balls soaked in battery acid.

I discreetly look at my husband from the corner of my eye. He looks as stoic as ever while driving. Instead of having one hand on my leg, he holds the steering wheel with both. His expression is as readable as a brick wall.

He hasn’t said a word since telling me Dr. Morgan was ready to see us. And before that, he didn’t speak at all. Well, that’s not true. He did tell me I’d chosen one hell of a day for my first hangover when he noticed me squinting at the light.

I remember last night in fragments, each one landing with the grace of a falling anvil. There are enough memories to create a picture of my behavior and my accusations. What was I thinking?

I guess I wasn’t, and that’s the problem. I was drunk and terrified and so angry I couldn’t see straight. Now I’m hungover and exhausted and scared for Mom. And… I think a part of me is still angry. I’m not completely sure why, but it’s definitely there.

Domenico turns onto the hospital street, and the building rises ahead of us. My stomach drops. Mom’s in there. The thought should be enough to drown out everything else, but it isn’t. Because Domenico’s silence is sitting between us like a third person in the car.

He’s quiet in that particular way that means he’s turning something over, examining it from every angle, and I have no idea what conclusion he’s reaching. Or what his problem even is.

Is it me? Maybe last night’s outburst proved to be too much trouble for him.

We pull into the parking garage, and the darkness is a relief after the morning glare. Domenico cuts the engine and sits for a moment, his eyes on the concrete pillar ahead of us. I wait, because what else can I do? My head throbs in time with my heartbeat.

“Are you ready?” he asks. Just that. No reference to last night, no acknowledgment of the elephant taking up the entire back seat.

I nod, because speaking feels like too much effort, and push my door open. The cool garage air hits my face, and for a second, it helps. Then I stand up too fast, and the world tilts. My hand finds the roof of the car, and I close my eyes until the spinning stops.

When I open them, Domenico’s watching me from his side of the car, one eyebrow raised.

“Don’t,” I mutter. “Just don’t.” That earns me half a smile.

Much to my dismay, a woman with a toddler gets on the elevator with us. Luckily, the kid is too busy staring at Domenico to make much noise. He doesn’t acknowledge the stare, he just stands there, taking up more space than any one person has a right to.

We cross the lobby, and every step sends a fresh spike through my temples. By the time we reach the bank of elevators for the neurology floor, I’ve given up on pretending I’m functional. I lean against the wall and press the heel of my hand to my forehead.

“Here.” Domenico’s voice is low, close to my ear. Something presses into my hand—a small bottle of water and two white pills. Where did he get this from? Right, he must have brought it from home.

I look at the pills, then at him.

“It’s just aspirin,” he says. “Not poison. Though after last night, you might prefer the poison.”

There it is, the first reference to last night. My cheeks burn, and it has nothing to do with the hangover. I swallow the pills and drain the water in one go. God, I still feel like I could go through another ten bottles.

Thankfully, no one else gets on the elevator with us, and we make the last part of the journey to the neurology floor in peace. I’m two steps into the corridor when Domenico’s hand closes around my wrist and he stops me.

“Listen to me, Kira.”

I turn back to look at him. “What?”

His free hand comes up, fingers brushing my jaw, tilting my face toward his. “You might be angry with me right now,” he murmurs. “But I’m here. You’re my wife, and I’m not going anywhere.”