Page 7

It’s all very functional and incredibly impersonal. Exactly the kind of room meant for visitors who don’t stay long enough to leave marks.

My stomach drops through the floor.

Wait, does that mean he already plans to kill me? No, I can’t think like that. I have to somehow believe he won’t do that. I mean, why marry me just to kill me?

I look up to find him watching me, his blue eyes unreadable in the hallway light. He’s already pulling his cufflinks free, rolling them in his palm like coins he’s counting. The casual gesture makes something cold thread through my veins.

Even though I’d prefer to keep as much distance between us as possible, I ask, “Shouldn’t we be sharing a bedroom?” The words taste like ash.

I don’t want to seduce him—I’m not even trying to be close to him. But my dad’s voice plays on repeat in my skull, the hiss he delivered two nights ago when he shoved the lingerie into my hands.

“You better fuck him, Kira. You better make sure he wants to keep you. One call and I pull the plug on your mom. One fucking call.”

When I confided in Father Joseph how nervous I was about the marriage, he told me a marriage is supposed to be a union in every sense. Same message, but very different delivery.

Domenico’s fingers still around the metal disks. He looks at me for one beat, then another, and I feel every second of silence like pressure against my sternum.

“I mean,” I continue, because the silence is worse than speaking, “we’re husband and wife now.”

I need this marriage to be real in every way he requires. I need him to claim me thoroughly enough that no one can question it, least of all the man who sold me.

My husband’s expression doesn’t change. He just shrugs and tells me to follow him, which I do. We pass two more doorways before he stops at the end of the hall and pushes open a heavier door.

The primary bedroom swallows the light from the hallway and turns it into something denser, richer. Charcoal linens on a king bed pulled so tight they look poured rather than made.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says, and this time I don’t stay in the hallway.

“Are my things here?” I ask, my voice steady even as my hands aren’t. “I had two suitcases. Dad gave them to your men when I arrived at the church this morning.”

Domenico crosses to a door I hadn’t noticed, set flush into the wall. He pulls it open to reveal a closet larger than the bedroom I had back home, and disappears inside. I hear the soft scrape of wheels on wood, and then he’s back, rolling both suitcases behind him.

I don’t know why the suitcases were in his walk-in closet if I wasn’t meant to stay here. But at least they weren’t lost.

They look small in his grasp, battered nylon that cost forty dollars each from the discount store near our old apartment. He sets them down near the foot of the bed without comment; the wheels locking with a soft click.

I stare at them. Everything I own in the world, compressed into forty-eight inches of cheap fabric and zippers that stick. My practical clothes, my worn shoes, the photo of my mom from before the accident that I couldn’t leave behind, even though it hurts to look at.

And… the black lace thing my dad forced on me, still folded in tissue paper in the smaller suitcase.

“Do you need anything else?” he asks, his tone matter-of-fact.

“I’d like to shower,” I reply.

Nodding, he strides over to yet another door and opens it to reveal the ensuite bathroom. He switches on the light and explains where the towels are.

“I don’t have any female products, but I’ll make sure to get stocked up tomorrow.” Is it my imagination, or is there a tinge of regret in his tone? No, it’s probably just wishful thinking.

“That’s okay,” I hurry to say. “I have everything I need.”

When he exits, I quickly grab the smallest suitcase and carry it into the bathroom. The suitcase hits the marble floor with a soft thud, and I press my back against the door until I hear the latch catch.

The bathroom swallows me whole—black stone everywhere; the vanity stretching wide beneath a mirror that reflects my own panic back at me in high definition. I look like a stranger.

Pushing off the door, I kick off my shoes, and I almost want to moan with pleasure when they’re no longer framing my feet. God, I’ll never again wear heels if I can avoid it. Then I move my hands to the side zipper on my wedding dress. But it catches when I try to work it down.

Blowing out a frustrated breath, I force myself to slow down, to breathe. This dress cost Domenico thousands, and it cost me everything I had left of myself.

The teeth separate inch by inch, and I feel each release like vertebrae unlocking along my spine. I slide the straps off my shoulders and peel the dress down until I can step out of it. I lift the dress carefully, the way I would handle something fragile, and hang it over the towel rack.