Page 18 of Brutal Vows

I harrumph, but why does that wedding-dress visual entice me so much? We’d just need a few tin cans tied to the rear and— Nope. Not on the agenda. Fuck this.

“Don’t worry,” he continues with a smirk. “I’ll still call you my princess, even if mia bellissima streghetta suits you better.”

“And what the hell does that mean?” I won’t allow the man to insult me in Italian.

“My beautiful little witch. Wearing all black to our wedding.”

I cross my arms, refusing to take a step closer to the motorcycle or to engage in banter. I’m here to get the hell out of Ivan’s compound and somehow on my way to Russia.

“A mood as black as the dress she wears. Don’t worry, I’ll eventually fix both.”

Ah. A man with ambitions. Let me watch you fix me. My husband has no idea how messed up I am. I’m beyond fixing.

He’s at the motorcycle, opening some compartment. He reaches inside and turns back to me with something in his palm I can’t see. As he steps closer. I step away, but my heels and this stupid dress don’t allow five inches backwards, what with the tight fit and slit in front. It’s made for piano playing where most of the work is in the upper body.

To my surprise, my groom is going down on one knee, looking up at me as if he’s about to pop The Question.

“Too late for that,” I spit out. “It’s done now.”

“Ha,” he chuckles. “Maybe if I’d asked you, I would have had my dream dress.”

In your dreams— I rear back when he flicks open a switchblade, my hands fumbling in the air. “What are you⁠—”

“Hold still,” he soothes, his hand on my ankle, anchoring me in place. “I don’t want to nick you by accident.”

I steel myself against his gentle touch in one of the most underexploited sexual areas on my body, but before I can draw a breath, he’s lifted my dress away from my leg and is slicing—SLICING—at the fabric, ruining it. It’s an ice bucket of water over every nerve ending that’s been sparkling with desire.

“Oh my…GOD! You—You…!” Villain.

The blade is so sharp, it glides through the velvet. I’m frozen in shock, stunned speechless, but no fear sparks through me. Fear is not an emotion my husband evokes in me—not yet—and this should scare the living daylights out of me. Another slice at the fabric, and my attention zaps back to where he’s kneeling at my feet.

And all I see now is him taking off my delicate heels, sliding his hands up my legs, one caressing my inner thigh, higher, deeper into the dark shadows of my dress⁠—

No! I shake my head, gaze down at him, but Luca is focused on the job, hand steady, so fast, he’s almost done. I’m trembling from my core outwards to every extremity. It should be rage, but he is so unexpected, I’m suppressing a laugh, sounding as if someone is strangling me.

He leans in, hugging my legs to get the back of the skirt, and tosses the separated piece to the side once he’s done.

“There.” He grins at me as he retracts the blade and stands, towering over me.

“That was a bespoke Vera Wang,” I bite out, grappling for control over myself and this situation.

“Huh. Well, it’s just a Vera now. We got rid of the Wang part.” He shoots me a boyish grin and drops his gaze down the length of my body, now clad in a little black dress. “Good thing too. Nice legs, princess.”

“And I’m not spreading them for you,” I hiss, wanting to retaliate, but I’m a fool. I’ve now gone and hinted at how desperate I am to stay unaffected by him.

“Whoa, she cuts to the chase, this one,” he says, his eyebrows raising in mock shock. “Can’t recall asking you to spread your legs, princess.”

“I thought we should get that out of the way.” There. Job done. Humiliation averted.

“Fine. What else do you want to discuss in front of Il Consiglio’s security team? They’re all ears.”

I shoot a glance to the side then drop my gaze, silenced. I spoke too soon. Now I’m mortified. Disoriented. Flushed. This isn’t what I expected—he isn’t what I expected. “Nothing.”

“Good. I’ll take that as a ‘nothing for now.’ Fume some more and make your list, and we can deal with this marriage’s fine print over dinner and a glass of wine like civilized people.” He beckons to someone as he looks over my shoulder.

A bodyguard walks over to us, feet sounding on the pavement, and he comes to stand with two helmets in my peripheral vision.

“Normally, I’d kit you out from head to toe, but the gear I have here is way too big. We’re not going far and will keep to quiet back roads. I’ll obviously go slow, so we’ll stick to only helmets for now. We’ll do a proper fitting once we’re home.”