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A wing chair next to the window to my right—that Salvatore is currently asleep in.
He’s not wearing the bloody clothes from last night any longer. He’s wearing dark grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt, and his hair is falling softly around his face, shiny and clean, as if he washed it last night. As I breathe in, I can smell the scents of soap and shampoo lingering in the air—he must have showered here, in the bathroom that I’m pretty sure is past the door next to the closet.
He didn’t want to leave me, after what happened. It’s the logical assumption, and I wait for it to soften something inside of me, to make me believe his story that all of this is for my own protection. My own good. I think of the violence last night, the blood and bodies that I saw, and shiver as my stomach churns with a sudden nausea.
I glance over at him again. He looks younger in the early morning light, asleep and relaxed as he is. I shift in the bed, biting my lip as I wonder if I should wake him—and then I see him start to stir, as if that slight movement was enough.
He opens his eyes, sitting up as he rubs a hand over his face. “Good morning,” he says, his voice rusty, and I tense. His dark gaze meets mine, and the rest of yesterday comes rushing back to me, resentment filling me to meet it.
“Is it?” I cross my arms over the blanket I’m still holding to my chest. “Theft and murder in one day. You really are everything a mafia don aspires to be, aren’t you? But nothing like my father.”
Salvatore’s lips thin momentarily. “Do you always wake up so combative?” he murmurs, sitting up straighter as he runs a hand through his hair. I try to ignore how soft it looks, spilling through his fingers as he looks back at me.
“Only when I wake up in a strange room, with the man who literally stole me away from my fiancé at the altar sleeping across from me.” I glare at him. “What happened last night?”
He lets out a slow breath. “I’m sorry for leaving you,” he says tersely. “It won’t happen again.”
I try not to make assumptions about what that might mean, yet. I have a feeling it’s not something I’m going to like. “Why?” I ask instead, still glaring. “Why did you leave me?” I hadn’t wanted him to stay—to sleep next to me—but it feels like the next logical question to ask. I have the distinct feeling that decisions about me are being made around me, without my input, and I don’t like it. I like it even less when it seems like those decisions led to a shootout in my bedroom.
Salvatore sighs. “I thought it was better to put some space between us. With emotions as—heightened, as they were.” He runs a hand through his hair again, watching me warily, as if I’m something he expects to pounce. “I planned to arrange for us to have separate bedrooms here. But now I’ve reconsidered.”
“Where is here?”
“My home. Our home now, I suppose. Your things will be delivered today from your family home, don’t worry,” he adds, as if my primary concern right now is anything material.
“So you just decided that I would live here?” I feel my teeth grind together. “Am I going to be asked my opinion about anything, any longer?”
Salvatore lets out a long-suffering breath. “A wife moves in with her husband after marriage,” he says slowly, as if speaking to a child. It irritates me, because not only am I not a child, but he certainly didn’t seem to see me as one last night.
“Your wife.” I press my lips together. “You should decide if you’re going to look at me like that, or patronize me as your ward. You can’t have both.”
Something sparks in his eyes, dark and irritated, and I can tell I’m starting to get under his skin. Good. “So we’re not going to have separate bedrooms?” I make sure he can hear the disappointment in my tone.
“No,” Salvatore says tightly. “We’ll share a room at night, so if there is an attack here, I’m better able to protect you. And when I’m not here, you’ll have a heavy guard on you at all times.” He says the last pointedly, as if to remind me that there’s no use thinking about trying to escape. Just because we’ve changed locations doesn’t mean it will be any easier for me to slip away, and try to go to the Bratva.
Frustration wells up in me. I had a chance to go back to Pyotr last night. I feel sure that he would have believed me, once I was able to tell him that Salvatore hadn’t actually fucked me last night. But the more time that passes, the more likely it is that won’t be true any longer.
Last night, I’d been frustrated at having my wedding night interrupted, aroused and not thinking clearly, wanting to find out all the rest of what I’d been promised would happen. But now, I’m back to dreading it.
Once Salvatore finishes what he started, there is very little chance that Pyotr will want me any longer. And then, any possibility of our marriage will be shattered.
“It was the Bratva, last night,” Salvatore says quietly—as if I would have thought it was anyone else. “Trying to take you back, possibly. Or just seeking revenge.”
“I told you Pyotr would come for me,” I snap. Salvatore says nothing, and my stomach tightens. I’m angry with him for putting me in this position, and angry with myself for doubting Pyotr last night—for believing that the Bratva had come to kill me, too. In the light of day, my fears seem foolish. I remember everything we talked about, all the things we said to each other, and I’m ashamed I doubted him.
“What happens now?” I tilt my chin up defiantly, daring Salvatore to tell me what else he has planned. “What else have you decided for me?”
He breathes out slowly again, another long-suffering sigh, as if even sitting here and telling me is too frustrating for him. You have no idea how frustrating I plan to make things, I seethe inwardly, gritting my teeth.
“The sheets from last night will be sent to the pakhan,” he says calmly. “Proof that the marriage was consummated. I doubt it will stop their plans for bloodshed. But it should stop any attempts to reclaim you, personally.”
Something in his voice falters when he says it, as if he’s not entirely sure. I grab onto it, wanting to exploit whatever I can. “It wasn’t consummated,” I point out. “Not really. You were too much of a coward to finish the job.”
Salvatore’s jaw tightens, and his eyes darken, his gaze sweeping over me once in a way that makes my skin prickle before he seems to regain his composure. “We’ll get to it in time,” he says stiffly, his tone harsh enough that I know I’m not supposed to argue.
It pisses me off. I’m not used to being sidelined, to not being heard, to being treated as if my opinion comes second to those around me. I’m not used to decisions being made for me. And I resent this decision, the decision about what happens to my body and how it’s used, being made for me most of all.
“Are you sure about that?” I taunt, flinging the covers back. Dimly, in the back of my head, I’m reminded that if I taunt him into fucking me, my chances of going back to Pyotr are shattered. But I’m too angry to think clearly, and I want to get under his skin. I want to hurt him, to make him feel as frustrated and furious as I do.
