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I want to think I was raised to be tougher than this, but the truth is that I wasn’t. My father did spoil me, but not in the derogatory way that Salvatore likes to say. He didn’t prepare me to have to face these kinds of obstacles, the attitudes of disapproving staff and a cold husband, because I wasn’t supposed to have to deal with any of them.
If Salvatore hadn’t interfered, I’d be happily married by now, settling into the home Pyotr and I planned to share.
Frances clears her throat, and I turn my attention back to her. “Salvatore can be particular about meals,” she says calmly. “I can give you an idea of his preferences, and you can base the weekly menus on that. He prefers seafood and lamb most days for dinners, occasionally chicken or duck?—”
“I don’t care.” I blurt it out before I can stop myself, pushing my chair back and standing up. I feel like I’m vibrating, like I need to get out of this room before I scream, because I can’t stand to hear about Salvatore’s food preferences as if nothing is wrong. As if any of this is how my life was supposed to go. “Make whatever you want. I don’t care about any of it.”
I see the look on Frances’ face at my outburst. I can see exactly what she thinks of me—that I’m stubborn and spoiled, that I don’t deserve Salvatore, who all of these people seem to like. But no one seems to give a shit about what I like, or want.
“Salvatore is a good man,” Frances says, as if echoing my thoughts. “We were—surprised, to hear he married his goddaughter. But he must have had good reason.” Everything she doesn’t say is dripping from her tone—he should have picked a better wife. Someone who doesn’t stamp her foot and argue. Someone who isn’t so spoiled.
Briefly, I can’t help but wonder if he might change his mind about the marriage, with so much pushback all around him. It’s clear that the heads of his staff—whom he clearly respects—disapprove. That they don’t like me, and thought this was a marriage of convenience, not a real marriage. That the idea that it might be more than that disturbs them. Maybe if he sees I’m not the only one who feels that way, he’ll give me back.
But I know that’s all but impossible now. It would be one thing if I could run away and get to Pyotr before Salvatore actually takes my virginity, or if Pyotr managed to steal me back first. I might be able to convince Pyotr that he would still be the first man to actually be inside of me, to finish in me, the only man who could possibly be the father of my future child. But as far as everyone in our world goes?—
The marriage has been witnessed. It was public, in front of the other families, vows spoken in front of a priest, the sheets sent to be seen by the head of the Family and the pakhan. For us, it’s all but impossible to dissolve now. Only my infidelity could do it, and maybe not even then, if the paternity of Salvatore’s heir is proven, and it’s his.
What it comes down to, simply, is that I’m not willing to give in just yet. I’m not willing to accept that Salvatore is going to be my husband, that this is going to be my life, that all of my wants are ash now, and my only future is what he’s chosen for me.
And if that is true, I’m going to make him pay for it.
“I mean it,” I tell Frances. “Cook whatever you want. Go nuts. Make what you know Salvatore likes. I don’t care about any of it.”
And then I turn on my heel, and stalk out of the room.
I need to burn off some energy. I feel like a trapped animal, and for the first time in my life, I wish I liked running. But that’s never been my exercise of choice.
Instead, I go up to the master suite—I can’t bring myself to think of it as my bedroom yet—and see Leah unpacking boxes and unzipping garment bags. “I can handle this,” I tell her, but she shakes her head.
“It’s my job,” she says simply, and starts to put away my clothing.
Truthfully, she’s right. And if I were home, I wouldn’t object to it. I’m used to having most things like this done for me. But I’m tired of standing in place like a doll while everyone moves around me, and insists I do things their way.
I snatch a stack of clothing out of her hands. “I’ll put these away,” I tell her sharply, and she just looks at me for a moment, before nodding and turning back to another box.
I feel a little guilty for snapping at her. It’s not her fault any more than it’s anyone else’s here besides my new husband. But he’s not here at the moment for me to lash out at him.
I need to burn some of this off. I look for my exercise clothes, grabbing a pair of my favorite leggings, a sports bra, and a tank top, before going into the bathroom to change.
No one has unpacked any of my toiletries yet. Everything in the bathroom is painfully masculine, all of it Salvatore’s. His razor, his shaving cream, and brush, and a bottle of his cologne. The room smells like him, and I can’t help but think that despite how I feel about him, it’s a pleasant smell. Warm and woodsy, and I breathe in before catching myself and shaking my head.
Once upon a time, I liked him well enough, even if I didn’t pay very much attention to him. He was my godfather and my father’s best friend, a fixture in our lives, but one that I didn’t give much more consideration to than any other fixture. Like furniture that’s always there, until you forget about it, or a painting you don’t notice any longer. But now, he’s set himself up to be the central part of my life. The thing around which everything else orbits.
My husband.
I suck in a breath, willing myself to calm down as I change and hurry past Leah to go downstairs. There’s a workout room past the library that Salvatore showed me, and I’m looking forward to using it. It’s well-appointed, with weights, a boxing bag, mats, and a few exercise machines. One of the walls is entirely a mirror, and I put one of the mats down in front of it, filling a water bottle and then settling in to stretch.
After a few minutes, the physical exertion starts to clear my mind. I focus on it, on the feeling of my muscles, the tension slowly flowing out of them as I go through my familiar stretching routine. When I feel warm and limber, I run through a few core exercises, and then go to where the free weights are racked.
This will help. It’s already helping. The burn of my muscles, the repetition, the feeling of being stronger, it all helps. It’s been the better part of a week since I’ve had time to work out, but I sink back into it easily, and the world fades away from me, Salvatore briefly forgotten. I promise myself that I’ll make sure to do this regularly—if only so I can escape from my new reality for a little while.
I’m so lost in it that I don’t hear the door open at first. I’m back on the mat, working through a Pilates routine with a video pulled up on my cell phone in front of me, when I suddenly look up and see Salvatore standing in the doorway.
“I’m busy.” I look away from him, focusing on holding the stretch I’m in, my core tight and my legs scissored in front of me. But suddenly, I feel exposed. I can feel his eyes on me, on my body in the tight spandex, on the shape and flex of my lean muscles under my skin. All of it belongs to him, and I’m suddenly painfully aware of it, sweat prickling on my spine as I glance up in the mirror again. “What do you want?”
“You’re going to be late for dinner.” Salvatore shifts, leaning against the doorjamb. “You don’t look as if you’re about to be finished. And you’ll need to shower and change. I believe I was clear that I expect?—”
“I don’t care what you expect,” I snap. I let myself fall out of the position I was in, my concentration broken, and my good mood dissolving by the second. “I’ve been informed of how sacrosanct your routine is, by both you and your house manager and your cook, for fuck’s sake, but apparently mine doesn’t matter?”
