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She lifted an eyebrow. “Thing? You mean the marriage you forced on me?”
He didn’t flinch. “I guess I did.” He wouldn’t apologize for it either. They belonged together. He’d felt that way ever since she’d pushed him down on her father’s couch, but he had let himself forget. At that time, she’d seemed like she agreed. “It was for your protection. That’s the only forcing I’ll do. I don’t rape women.”
“We consummate this thing, or we don’t. That’s all up to you. But you have the Coronella name now. That’s worth something.” He tried to catch her gaze, but she wouldn’t look at him. Her gaze skittered away. She stared at the far window, which was dimmed by the twilight that had fallen outside.
“My father didn’t think so. If he had, he would have let me marry you.” Though she crossed her arms, holding them tight and protective against her, her words had softened toward the end.
The term she’d used, ‘let,’ smothered the lingering doubts he’d only recently realized he had, but he needed to be certain. “And you, Bea?” he asked. “Did you want me? Or the Albanian?”
Her eyes slanted toward him. “You think I would have—” Her lips pressed together again, and she stared down at the large redwood table.
Heat and shame filled Montrell. He had acted like a fool after he lost himself in her. He’d ignored all the signs Vespa had pointed out, and then, when Santino Lucchese’s words and his own insecurities had taken over his mind, he’d decided Beatrice had used her body to trick him.
Beatrice swallowed. “I’m a daughter of La Cosa Nostra,” she said. “I do what I’m told.”
Perhaps her giving herself to him back then had been tainted. Perhaps she had been following orders.
It didn’t matter. It didn’t change the fact that she’d been living in hell ever since. “Not anymore,” he told her.
Beatrice lifted her head.
“As my wife, you’ll do whatever you want.”
She blinked. “What I want?”
Montrell nodded. “Giulia told me about you offering to cook and clean today. About how she stopped you.” He shrugged. “If it makes you happy, you can do that, but only if it makes you happy. You’d rather lounge around all day in your room? Do that instead. Want to try to make me broke? Go shopping all you want. All I ask is if you leave the house, take some Coronellas with you. You’re not a prisoner, but the Albanians are out for blood.”
She paled at the mention of the Albanians, but it was too important not to bring them up.
“Don’t worry, we’ve already spilled more of their blood besides that shoot-out in Vegas. I won’t be through until they pose no more risk to you or mine,” he promised.
Her eyes snapped to his. “And if I want to be the one to kill them?”
The heat had banked down to a warmth that swirled in his stomach. It felt a little like hope. “Just tell me when, Bea. Me and my boys and Vespa will be beside you all the way. I want this marriage to mean freedom for you. Freedom to do whatever you damn well please.”
Her eyes seemed to sharpen under the fluorescent lights. “It’d please me to torture them. My husband… What happened in the hotel was an accident. His death should have been slow and painful and—” She broke off, closing her eyes.
Montrell’s throat tightened. He’d been imagining that she’d taken her vengeance. Instead, she’d been cheated of even that. “Will anyone do? Or do you have someone in mind?”
“His cousins. They—” She shook her head, swallowing. “No. I can’t say it.”
“And you never have to.” Montrell leaned forward. “I’m being very serious here, Bea. You say what you want, share what you want, do what you want, fucking be what you want.” Her gaze met his again. “That’s what being my wife means.”
Her tongue came out, licking her lips nervously. “As long as I’m yours, right? That’s the deal?”
“No, Bea.” Montrell held his hand out palm up, his wedding band reflecting the light. “I’m yours. Use me as you want.”
“I don’t want you. That’s the problem.” She sucked in a breath. “I’m not going to want to have sex with you. This can’t be a true marriage.”
“Who says? We get to define our marriage.” Montrell left his hand extended, staring at the band. “Sex is on your terms. If it’s none, it’s none.” Saying it wasn’t as hard as he’d thought. He always flushed a bit when he lied, and he hoped his beard covered it. He wasn’t lying, not exactly, but he wasn’t being honest about what he wanted either. He couldn’t help thinking about how it could be between them, and he had hopes for the future, even if it was years into the future.
Instead of looking relieved, Beatrice’s eyes had narrowed. “Because you’ll have other women?” she asked.
His eyes searched her face. He doubted she’d believe she was the last woman he’d been with. His hand was the only thing keeping him company, all to thoughts of her. They had been angry and bitter thoughts at first, but then the sting had faded, leaving pleasant memories in its place.
“Is that what you want?” he asked. “Me fucking other women?”
She bit her lip, and his tension began to ease—until her words followed. “What if I want to fuck other men?”
