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“I’ve already said?—”
“You bit off more than you could chew, though, didn’t you?” she taunts, pushing her chair back. “You wanted your friend’s daughter, but you can’t satisfy her now that you have her. Poor Salvatore.” Her voice rises, mocking, and something snaps inside of me. My gaze meets hers, level and hard.
“You were certainly satisfied earlier,” I remind her coolly, and I see her blanch, her eyes sparking angrily.
“I’m going upstairs,” she snaps, tossing her napkin on the table. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my appetite.”
And with that, she spins on her heel, and leaves the room before I can say a word.
Gia
Salvatore doesn’t come upstairs for a long time. I suspect he’s trying to give me time to cool off, but I’m too angry for that. It’s only been a day, I think to myself as I lock the bathroom door and draw a hot bath, nearly trembling with anger. One day, and I want to strangle him. I can tell he’s not pleased with me either, though he does a better job of restraining his temper.
How am I supposed to endure a lifetime of this? A marriage I don’t want, a husband I don’t love, the promise of a future with both of those things stolen away from me. Children would make it easier. With children, I would have love. A way to occupy my time, something to focus on. But Salvatore won’t even give me that.
No matter how I turn it over in my head as I lie in the bath, I can’t come to terms with my situation. I can’t be okay with it, as Salvatore seems to expect me to. He seems to think that I should just believe him—that I should accept that he’s saved me from a terrible fate I don’t understand, and acclimate to my new role as his wife.
He picked the wrong woman if he wants someone biddable. He’s made it clear that this marriage can’t be dissolved, that the Bratva wouldn’t take me back even if he offered, but I don’t believe him. I don’t believe Pyotr would abandon me so easily. I don’t believe that he wouldn’t still want me, still love me, if I managed to get back to him. It’s not as if I willingly left him for Salvatore. I was stolen away.
I close my eyes, trying to drift back to those hours we spent together at my home, sitting in the library by the fire, out in the garden in the warmer weather. Of the things we talked about—his future as the leader of the Bratva, his hope that our fathers’ efforts would lead to peace. Of how our children would grow up safer, because I agreed to marry him. He liked that I talked back sometimes, that I would tease him, that I’d let him flirt and touch a little, and then pull away. We were good for each other, I believed. My father believed that, too.
So who does Salvatore think he is, to decide otherwise?
I’m so angry. I don’t think I’ve ever been this angry at anyone or anything—even when my father died, it wasn’t anger that I felt, but grief. He was ill—there wasn’t anyone to be angry at. It was tragic, but I was sad about it, not furious.
Now, I feel like I’m full of rage, churning through me every time I really think about my situation, about what’s happened. And every time, it comes back to Salvatore.
He’s the one to blame. And I hate myself a little, too, for giving in to his advances. For letting him please me. For not resisting, and refusing to let my body be swayed by his touch, by his breath in my ear, by his all-too-skilled fingers.
I hate him, and deep down, I’m beginning to desire him. I want this to be over, to be free of this situation that I’ve been forced into, but I don’t see a way out.
Not unless Pyotr steals me back. And Salvatore seems to think there’s no possible way that can happen.
He wants me to be a quiet, proper mafia wife, fading into the background so that he can go on with his life, virtually unchanged after turning mine upside down. And while I don’t have much control over anything else that happens, I can, at the very least, control that.
I’m not going to make this easy on him.
I get out of the bath, drying off, and slipping into a pair of soft sleep shorts and a tank top. Salvatore still isn’t in the bedroom, and I get into bed, exhausted from the day and the roller-coaster of emotions. I’m glad he hasn’t come upstairs yet—with any luck, I’ll be asleep before he does.
I slide under the covers, in a strange bed, a strange room, and I miss home. I close my eyes, pretending that I’m back in my own bedroom. That my future still has the possibility of being everything I had hoped for.
A tear rolls down my cheek, just before I fall asleep.
—
I wake up with the heavy weight of a male body pressed against my back, one arm across my waist, holding me against a broad, warm chest. I smell Salvatore’s woodsy scent, feel the tickle of the scruff on his jaw against the back of my neck, and I go very still.
He must have moved close to me in the middle of the night, while he was sleeping. I don’t move a muscle, unsure of whether I want him to move away or not.
I’ve never been held by anyone like this. Never shared a bed with anyone. I should hate it—should hate having him so close, waking up in his arms, a reminder that I no longer have the right to even sleep alone in my own bed. But—I don’t hate it as much as I should.
He feels good against me. Solid and warm, the muscled shape of his body curved around mine, my ass perfectly nestled in the cradle of his hips, my back to his chest. I feel him shift behind me, his cock hardening against the small of my back, and an unexpected jolt of desire sparks along my skin.
I hear him groan quietly in his sleep, his hand splaying over the flat of my belly, and my pulse picks up speed. I can easily imagine him nudging his knee between mine, spreading my legs, angling himself so he could slip into me from behind. I feel myself tighten in anticipation, warmth pooling in my veins, and I arch against him without thinking, pushing the soft curve of my ass against his growing hardness.
What the fuck are you doing? The words echo dimly in the back of my mind, but the rest of my thoughts are taking a different turn. What if you seduced him? He says you can’t go back. That you’re stuck. What if, instead, you got what you wanted? Made him give in. Made him give you children. Made him give you something you want instead of only taking, and taking.
I squirm again, grinding a little against the thick ridge that’s now digging into my spine. Salvatore groans again, sleepily, his hand sliding up my ribs, almost to the curve of my breast beneath my tank top. I feel a warm ache between my legs, and I twist, my hand slipping between us to stroke the shape of his cock through the soft pants he wore to bed.
