“Shh. Just relax,” Santiago says, fingers gentle on my face.

“She’ll be all right. Probably have a headache, though,” says a vaguely familiar voice.

I open my eyes to find Santiago and Dr. Hendrickson standing over me.

“There she is,” the kind doctor says, smiling as he tucks something into his bag.

I look from him to my husband, who looks absolutely tortured, and I remember what happened. Colette and Jackson coming over, the shoes in the security footage that will exonerate me. The brief relief followed by Santiago’s madness.

Does he think Mercedes has somehow betrayed him? No. I can’t believe that. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that Mercedes loves him. She’d do anything for him. He must know that.

The moment I try to sit up, Santiago’s arms are around me, hands lifting me, pushing a pillow behind my back.

“You’ll need to take it easy today, but it’s just a bump. Santiago will keep a close eye on you to be sure there’s no concussion, but I don’t think so.”

“Our session,” I say, vaguely remembering an appointment.

“It’s actually why I happened to be here at the right time. I don’t think we’ll have our session today, Ivy, but I’ll be back next week.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I’ll see you out,” Santiago says.

“No need. You stay with your wife. I think Antonia is nearby anyway.”

“Let her know Ivy’s fine. She’s probably worried.”

“Will do.”

They shake hands, and I watch the doctor leave. The moment he does, Santiago turns to me. He sits on the edge of the bed and pushes hair behind my ear. He studies my face in a way he hasn’t before and touches the spot where the tattoo gun left a tiny dot of ink.

“Christ,” he says, wrapping his big hand around the back of my head, gentle with the bump as he weaves his fingers into my hair and draws me against his chest. He holds me like that for the longest moment.

I breathe him in and can’t help the tears of relief as I wrap my arms around his middle, feeling his strength and the power of his protection.

“What I almost did to you,” he says, the words barely audible as if they weren’t meant to be spoken at all as he brings his lips to the top of my head.

I draw back, and he cups my face, his hands on either side, thumbs wiping away old or new tears. I can’t tell anymore. The look in his eyes, though, is pure torture.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I am exactly the monster you prayed I wouldn’t be the night of the wedding.”