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“It’s a man’s job to provide for you.” My hatred for the cowardly piece of shit roughened my tone.
“That’s a very outdated view.” She sounded disapproving. “I contribute what I can. I’ll never take more than what I earn for myself.”
I cupped her nape, keeping her locked in my steady stare. “You’re with me now. I will provide for you. Anything you desire is yours.”
She shifted, strangely uneasy in response to my declaration.
Irritation needled me. She would accept what I offered.
“You don’t have to work another day in your life,” I asserted. “You don’t have to scrape by anymore. I will take care of you, Evelyn.”
Her brows rose. “And what if I want to work? What if I want to pay my own way? I don’t want to owe you anything, Massimo.”
Her defiance set my teeth on edge. She was rejecting my offer to provide for her. I wouldn’t fucking allow it.
“Do you want to be a teacher?” I asked. “Because if teaching is your passion, I won’t stop you. But you don’t need to earn a salary anymore.”
Her full lips pressed to a thin line. “You’re being very presumptuous. What makes you think you can stop me from doing anything?”
“You’re mine.” The declaration left me on a growl, and a few of the other guests turned to stare. I tried to soften my tone to something more human. “You will never want for anything. So, if you want to teach, you are welcome to pursue that career.”
Once we were in Naples, she could go to work as a teacher, as long as she shared my bed every night; as long as she understood that her home was with me.
She huffed an exasperated sigh. “I don’t particularly care about teaching. It just paid the bills. But you can’t order me around like this. I can support myself.”
I caught on the small admission. If she didn’t want to work, why would she? “And what would you rather do with your time?”
All she had to do was name it, and I would make it happen.
“I studied Photography, but that’s just a hobby,” she replied. “I’m not really qualified to do anything other than teach. It’s not like I could ever make a living off my art.”
Something about the way she said the words sounded rote, like she was repeating a truth she’d heard often.
Suspicion stirred, and I didn’t think I’d like her answer. I asked anyway. “And who told you that?”
She shrugged and dropped her gaze, hiding from me again. “It’s just a fact. Art degrees don’t pay.”
“Who told you that you’re not good enough?” I compelled her to reply, leaving no room for evasion or defiance.
Her cheeks flushed. “My parents,” she mumbled. “George. But they were right. It’s just a silly hobby. I’m not a real artist.”
I gnashed my teeth and tasted copper on my tongue. I resolved to gift her with a camera at the first opportunity. Then I would see her talent for myself.
“You studied Photography at university?” I prompted. “You got a degree for it?”
She shook her head even as she answered, “Yes. But I?—”
“Then you’re an artist.” It didn’t surprise me. Evelyn was observant and a bit reserved at times, quietly assessing the world around her. I remembered how she’d studied the wares when I’d stalked her through the market, as though she saw the beauty in every item. She’d snapped a photo of some flowers with her phone, and that motherfucker, Crawford, had said something to make her frown. She’d quickly hidden it, replacing the sad expression with a sunny smile. But he’d upset her.
My fingers itched with the need to wrap around his throat and squeeze the life out of him.
I was distracted from my mounting fury when the main course was served. She took the first bite and released a low hum.
Fuck, I needed to take her somewhere private so that I could give her a full orgasm while she was enjoying eating from my hand.
I leaned close so that I could murmur in her ear. “Finish your meal, farfallina. We’re having our dessert delivered to the suite.”
She blinked at me. “Why? I don’t mind getting out of here, but the food is so good.”
