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Salvatore draws in a slow breath, and for a moment, I think he’s going to shake me again. He certainly seems to want to. But instead, he turns and gestures towards the door. “Let’s get on with the tour.”
I step out into the hallway. We’re on the third floor of the mansion Salvatore lives in. The floors are wood, the walls a soft blue, edged with matching dark wood. The room I just came from has a double door, and I see another matching suite across the hallway. They appear to be the only two rooms on this floor.
“The master suite,” Salvatore says from just behind me, making me jump. He steps forward, opening the other doors. “I put you in the suite reserved for important guests. I intended it to be your room, once I brought you home. But as I said, the attack changed my mind about our sleeping arrangements.”
Important guests. Home. I’m not a guest; I’m his wife, but this isn’t my home. My home is a few miles away, a rolling green estate with lush gardens and a gorgeous mid-century mansion as the focal point of it all. This place feels strange, unwelcoming.
But I follow Salvatore’s lead, and walk into the master suite, because I’m beginning to realize that I’ll need to pick at least some of my battles.
It’s a huge room. There’s a fireplace at one end, French doors leading out onto a balcony, and a bed bigger even than the one I woke up in. It’s very similar to the suite across the hall, except decorated in darker tones—deep greys—and with some of Salvatore’s possessions neatly visible. An uncomfortable sense of intimacy fills me—I see his watch on the nightstand, the closet door cracked open just enough for me to see suits hanging inside of it. The air smells like him, like the woodsy cologne that he wears, and my stomach tightens.
He’s going to expect me to sleep with him in that bed tonight, and every night that comes after it. He’ll expect more, too—whether it’s tonight or further in the future, but eventually?—
Salvatore clears his throat. “Follow me,” he says curtly, as if he saw my gaze linger on the bed for too long, and wants to put a stop to my line of thinking.
He leads me down a long, curving wooden staircase. It gleams in the sunlight coming through the tall windows from the top floor, down to the second floor. “The guest rooms are here,” he says. “A few of them have en-suite bathrooms; others are simply bedrooms, with another large bathroom on this hall. If we have guests at any point, you are expected to assign rooms based on their status within the Family. I assume I don’t have to explain to you how to determine that.”
I shake my head. Truthfully, I’m not all that aware of which families hold the most status, which should be favored over the others. But I don’t want to hear another lecture on holes my father supposedly left in my wifely education, so I keep my mouth shut, and let Salvatore assume.
“I don’t think I need to show you through each and every one. Most of what I want to show you is on the main floor.” He gestures to the staircase, and I follow him down to the stone-tiled entryway that leads into the remainder of the house.
“My study is there.” He motions to the first door down a hallway to the left. “I prefer to be left alone when I’m working, but if you need me, you can usually find me there during the day. There is a library down here as well.” He leads me down the hall, past the door that I assume goes to his study, and into the library.
It’s a large room with another fireplace, leather seating scattered across the space, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Salvatore looks at me, clearly expecting my approval, and I find that I don’t want to give it.
“What? You think just because I mentioned once that I like to read, you’ll win me over with this?” I shrug. “It’s fine. The one I’m used to at home was bigger.”
Truthfully, it’s lovely. The library in my father’s house was airier and more modern, but there’s an old-world beauty to this room that catches my eye. Those same blue tones and dark wood, the leather seating all visibly buttery-soft to the touch, the stone fireplace built with varying shades of grey that give it a rustic elegance. But I’m not about to admit that to Salvatore.
Nor do I want to admit how gorgeous the rest of his home is. He leads me through a similarly decorated formal living room—only with fewer bookshelves and velvet seating, the rugs tufted in a rose pattern—and a semi-formal living room with a long, soft-looking sectional couch that has thickly knitted throw blankets folded over it, inviting me to curl up with a book in front of the fireplace.
“Did you tell them to put a fireplace in every room?” I ask sweetly, crossing my arms. “Or was that an accidental design choice?”
Once again, Salvatore ignores me. I press my lips together, forcing myself to keep my expression smooth, not to show how irritated it makes me that he can ignore me so easily, without consequence. I’m sure if I ignored something he had to say, I wouldn’t hear the end of it.
He’s clearly not willing to let me bait him any longer, but I know it’s only a matter of time before I manage to get under his skin again. He can try to bolster himself against it, but I’m not going to let him have any rest. Not when he’s taken me away from everything I wanted.
He shows me both dining rooms, the smaller one where we’ll take our meals and the larger one where the dinner parties he talked about will be held. And then he leads me out of the glass doors at the back of the house, to the estate beyond.
“There’s a swimming pool there.” He gestures to where I can see a small building, and a fenced-in deck. “And the gardens and greenhouse are that way. My cook likes to grow some of her own produce, so she puts it to good use.” Salvatore pauses, taking a deep breath, as if he’s trying to summon his goodwill back. “I saw how much you enjoyed the gardens at your father’s home, Gia. I thought you would like to see the ones here. You can make whatever changes you like. In fact, if there’s anything about the house you would like to change, feel free to give me your ideas. I’m not so overly attached to any of it that I won’t listen.”
“I’d like to change the fact that I’m expected to live here.” I pivot towards him, refusing to give an inch. Inwardly, I couldn’t help but feel a small pinch of emotion that he remembered how much time I spent in the gardens at home once it was warm again, how happy it made me to be outside. But I won’t let him manipulate me with it. “You can show me whatever you want, Salvatore. It doesn’t change that this is a very beautiful prison.”
His mouth twitches, ever so slightly. “So you’re admitting you do like it.”
“No!” I glare at him, taking an angry step forward. “I don’t like it. I don’t like being here. I don’t like you. And I don’t like anything about this situation that you’ve forced me into.”
His jaw tightens. He looks down at me, and I can tell that he’s close to his breaking point. I’m pissing him off, and I imagine the sexual frustration isn’t helping. He can say he doesn’t want me all he likes, but I can see the way he’s looking at me.
“We’re not going to do this every day, Gia,” he says quietly. “I’m not going to indulge your desire to make this marriage one of utter misery?—”
“Then you probably shouldn’t have married me.” I give him that falsely sweet smile again. “After all, despite watching me grow up, you really don’t know me all that well, do you?”
“I know that even your father wouldn’t have allowed you to be such a brat!” Salvatore snaps, and then instantly tenses, taking a step back. His anger is rising, and I can see him trying to control himself. I see him swallow hard, see his hands flex, see the way his eyes darken as he looks at me. He might say he doesn’t like my attitude, but it’s not only anger that’s making him look as if he’s on the verge of snapping.
And despite myself, a flutter of curiosity makes my pulse throb in the hollow of my throat, my own heartbeat quickening. The memory of Salvatore’s long, deft fingers sliding over my heated flesh, the pleasure that rippled over me, the expert way he made me come—it all comes back to me, and I feel my breath catch in my throat.
I don’t want him. I don’t. But it had felt so good. Better than anything I’ve ever done alone, despite what I said to him earlier. And I can feel warmth spreading through my veins, a faint ache forming as I wonder what it would feel like if he did it again, and didn’t stop. If he replaced his fingers with his tongue. His?—
