Page 39 of The Kingpin’s Bride

“She is in excellent condition for the purpose,” he said. “I recommend daily monitoring of basal temperature once we have the blood results. Intercourse timed to ovulation windows. Supplements to support early pregnancy. Any history of trauma I should know about that might affect compliance?”

Matteo’s gaze flicked to my face for the briefest second. Something unreadable moved behind his eyes before the cold mask settled again. “Not that I know of, but it’s possible.”

The doctor packed his bag. The woman in scrubs closed the tablet. They left without looking at me again. The door clicked shut.

The room felt larger and smaller at the same time. The bright lights stayed on. The gel from the ultrasound had begun to dry sticky on my skin. The puncture mark from the blood draw throbbed faintly in the bend of my elbow.

Matteo did not remove the collar or the leash. He simply stood at the side of the bed and looked down at me. Trousers around my ankles, gel cool on my stomach, the ring heavy on my finger, and the confirmed information that I was the perfect baby making machine.

He reached into the closet and pulled out a set of clothes I had not seen before. Pure white. Soft long-sleeved top. Matching tight-fitting shorts. Nothing black. Nothing that belonged to the club or the life I had lived before the auction. White like the dress I had never worn.

“Lift your arms for me.”

I lifted them. He pulled the pink top off me himself and replaced it with the white one. The fabric was soft against skin that felt marked. Then he crouched and guided my feet into the white shorts, drawing them up my legs with the same clinical precision he used for everything else. When he finished he stepped back and looked at me the way a man looks at something he has finished arranging.

“White from now on,” he said. “When you wear color it will be because I allow it. Until then you dress like what the Families saw you become, which is my wife. Nothing else.”

I swallowed. “Okay.”

He gave the leash a short tug. “Good girl. Come with me.”

I stood. My legs felt disconnected from the rest of me. The ankle cuffs were gone but the memory of them remained in the red marks circling my skin. He led me out of the bedroom, past the wall of my own photographed face, and back into the kitchen that smelled faintly of coffee and the eggs he had made earlier.

The low stool waited beside the island. I sat. He prepared food with the same clinical efficiency the doctor had used on my body.

The leash was resting on the counter.

“You can watch some TV while you wait,” Matteo said over his shoulder.

I was shocked. Choosing to accept, I moved to a long grey couch in the adjoining room. I flicked on a giant TV and flipped through channels, looking for a distraction.

I settled on a B.-rated thriller I’d seen before, and kept sneaking glances at Matteo in the kitchen. Half an hour must have passed judging by the mindless movie, but it felt like seconds, definitely not enough time to judge Matteo and how dangerous he really was.

“Come eat,” he called out soon, and I followed the scent of meat, tomatoes, and cheese to the table.

My plate was overheaping with homemade lasagna. Matteo barely looked at me. He did grab the leash again, though.

I ate because refusal was not an option. Every bite tasted delicious, even though I hated admitting it. The leash remained looped around his left hand so that any sudden movement would register immediately.

We did not speak at first. His eyes were on the city beyond the glass. I kept my gaze on the plate, trying not to stuff my face too obviously. The fear of him lived in the silence between us, heavier than the ring on my finger.

A while later, he set his fork down.

I forced my eyes up. His face was the same cold mask it had been on the stage, but something shifted in the way he studied the white fabric against my skin.

“You look like you belong to the vows now,” he said. The words were quiet, almost thoughtful. “Like a real bride. Did you ever dream of having a wedding?”For one heartbeat his free hand rose. His fingers brushed the edge of the collar where the leather met the side of my neck, adjusting it so it sat a fraction less tight against the raw places. The touch was brief. Careful. Almost gentle. Then his hand dropped as if the contact had burned him. The cold returned to his eyes so completely it was as if the moment had never existed.

“Not really,” I admitted.

“How peculiar,” he said, voice flat again. “Do you like the food?”

“Yes,” I admitted. He smiled, and it nearly made me drop my fork.

“The blood results are back,” he said. His voice was quiet, almost conversational, the way a man speaks when the outcome was never in doubt. “Everything the doctor hoped for. Clear. Timed perfectly for when we try to conceive .”

I kept my eyes on the plate. The white fabric of the shorts brushed my skin, and I started picking at the threads.

Matteo’s free hand rose, and for one impossible second I thought he might hit me. Instead his fingers closed around my jaw and tilted my head up until I had no choice but to meet his eyes.