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I reach out, resting my hand on her thigh. I feel her tense, hear her indrawn breath, but she finally looks at me.
“When you say it like that, it sounds pretty self-involved that I feel so guilty.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I know a lot of people in your life have been unkind to you, Bella. You always seem to want to ascribe the worst motivations to yourself. When in reality, you’re none of those things. You’re not to blame. You’re not selfish. You’re not narcissistic or any of the other negative things that you seem to think you are, because your father and those around you for most of your life have treated you that way. You’re a good, kind person. That’s why?—”
I break off, just as her eyes widen. I know what was about to fall off of my lips. What I was close to saying. I don’t know why I don’t simply come out with it, other than?—
Other than the fact that I don’t know what she would say in return. And the thought of telling her how I feel, only for her to look away and remind me of all the things we agreed on, feels like more than I can take right now after so much upheaval and loss.
My hand tightens gently on her thigh. “Igor will be dealt with, Bella. More protection is coming for you and the family. We’ll deal with this.”
“And then what?” She looks at me, and I can’t read what’s in her eyes. It looks like hope, but hope for what? Her freedom? The life she planned to live on her own before she was forced into a marriage for her own safety, the one thing above all else that she was trying to avoid? Or hope for something else, something that I’m afraid to allow myself to hope for in return?
“Then we—” I take a breath. “We figure that out when the time comes.”
The look on her face suggests that wasn’t the answer she was hoping for. But I’m unsure what it was that she wanted me to say.
I’m painfully aware of the fact that we’re alone in the bedroom. That we’re sitting on the bed, the soft warmth of her leg under my hand, her mouth so close that I could lean forward and kiss her so easily. She swallows hard, her throat moving as if she’s thinking the same thing, and I feel a rush of hot, irresistible desire at the memory of her on her knees in front of me, just a few days ago.
I can’t remember when I last wanted anything as badly as I want her.
“Bella.” Her name slips from my lips before I can stop it, and I feel the way she tenses under my hand, but she doesn’t move. My other hand seems to move of its own accord, lifting to slip my finger under her chin, and I bring her mouth closer to mine, her scent filling my senses.
My entire body is aching with need. I want to pull her into my lap, tumble her back onto the bed, and sink myself into her until all I feel is her heat wrapped around me. I can feel my pulse throbbing in my veins, can feel how fucking hard I am. But I brush my mouth against hers slowly, gently, wanting her to give in to it, too. To need it as badly as I do.
For a brief moment, I feel her softening. I feel her leaning in, her mouth pressing against mine, as if she wants that same forgetfulness, that same comfort, every bit as badly as I do.
And then she pulls back, her eyes hooded, her posture stiff.
“Gabriel—”
“I know.” I push myself up from the bed, needing to put distance between us. “We agreed.”
“I’m sorry. But if we—” She breaks off, her lip caught between her teeth, and I know what she’s not saying. I know, because it’s true.
If we start again, we won’t stop. If we start again, it will be so much harder at the end of all of this, if she leaves.
But God help me, that’s what I want. I want it to feel impossible for her to go.
—-
The next morning, I wake up early, leaving Bella to sleep while I go for a run. Without a gym here, my workout routine has shifted to running and calisthenics, both of which I don’t enjoy nearly as much as boxing and weightlifting. But more than ever, it feels important to stay fit.
She’s no longer in bed when I come back, sweaty and ready for a shower. The bed is neatly made, no trace of her left, but I think I can still smell her warm, soapy scent when I walk into the room. My cock throbs, half-hard, just like it’s been for all of the morning since I woke up next to her.
I’ve become far more acquainted with my hand than I ever thought I would be as a married man. I stare at the bed for a long moment, envisioning her still there, sleepy and soft and warm. The image of rolling her onto her back, tugging the little shorts she slept in to one side, and sinking into her fills my mind. I’m instantly rock-hard, aching, and I reach down, squeezing my cock regretfully as I walk to the shower.
It’s going to be a long one.
By the time I get out, I’m not exactly satisfied, but I can at least think a little more clearly. Which is good, because beyond waiting for Gio to call with news about Igor’s movements or the delivery of additional security, I have other business today to handle in regards to the estate.
The thought of it makes my heart feel heavy as I drive out to the stables. A buyer is coming today to potentially finalize the sale of a handful of the racehorses, and it’s the first step in selling off the estate, as I’ve planned. But as it becomes more real, it doesn’t become any easier. It’s anything but easy.
The buyer is an older man, wealthy, sun-browned skin and a shock of white hair, dressed elegantly. He has his trainer with him, a tall, dark-haired man who confers with his boss in Italian, and makes me wish that I hadn’t let so much of mine slip. I only catch every fourth word or so, and in my current mood, it only serves to make me more frustrated.
The horses are taken out, put through their paces, one of our staff riders galloping them along the track so that the buyer and his trainer can watch them run. The trainer examines them afterward, running his hands over their legs, and I can see the approval on his face. In the end, the sale is confirmed, and they pay my asking price.
It should feel like an accomplishment. But all I feel, as I agree on a date for them to come and collect the horses, is that same heavy weight in my chest. A feeling that I shouldn’t be selling off my family’s legacy, that I’m losing something by doing so instead of gaining.
