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He was there when I got home. Cristian.
I was encased in guilt. Drenched in it. More than I had when I’d walked into the apartment I’d shared with Pete. And Cristian was nothing like Pete, he saw me. To the core of me.
But he wasn’t a mind reader. I had to remember that.
I only found him because the kitchen was a nightmare. There were people in chef’s clothes preparing, chopping, simmering. They glanced at me when I entered but quickly lowered their eyes. I wasn’t sure if that was the default when dealing with anyone who lived here, or if Cristian had instructed staff not to look at me under the threat of death and dismemberment. It sounded like something he would do. Whatever the reason, I did not like it. It had me searching for escape out on the patio.
I didn’t find escape. I found him.
He was sitting on the sofa outside wearing a black suit, black shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, staring out at the grounds. I’d never seen him in anything but a suit. Well, I’d seen him naked. But nothing in between. No jeans. No sweatpants. It seemed impossible that he would wear such things. He was so buttoned up, so sleek, like he never relaxed, let his guard down. He wasn’t the man that binged Netflix for eight hours. I liked that.
I could’ve run. Back to my room. Locked the door. It would’ve been the smart thing to do. The safe thing to do, then he wouldn’t look at me, get the opportunity to find my deception. But that wasn’t me. I wasn’t the woman that hid from her problems, that locked herself away, waiting for someone to come and save me. No one was coming. No one was doing any saving. And, if I was honest with myself, I didn’t want anyone to save me.
I walked up to him, snatched the glass in his hand and downed the whisky he was holding. The warmth spread down my throat and into my stomach. But the heat provided by the alcohol was nothing compared to what I felt from Cristian’s eyes. They ran over my outfit, much like Felix’s had this morning. But my body responded more violently.
I felt it in my pussy when his eyes lingered at my nipples. He knew what was underneath. Everything that was underneath.
His hazelnut eyes traveled downward, past the hem of my skirt, down my legs to the matching shoes. Then back up. Mine did the same to him. His chocolate brown hair was slightly mussed, he must’ve been running his hands through it. My fingers itched with the need to do the same. To yank at it, pull it from the fucking root and save it. Keep it somewhere. He hadn’t shaved this morning. The shadow on his jaw was dark, stubble thick and rough. It would leave marks on my thighs.
“You have to change,” he said. There was a thickness to his voice. Hunger. It comforted me that he could not mask that. He was not in control of whatever it was between us. It weakened him, albeit slightly. I needed to remember that.
“You cannot order me to change,” I snapped.
“Yes, I can,” he replied. “I could tell you to strip here, in full view of the kitchen staff, and you’d do it.” His eyes didn’t move from mine. “I could get you on your knees, cutting them on the stone patio, sucking my cock, and you’d do it.”
My knees were shaking as he spoke, hatred coiling in my belly at the disgusting truth of those words.
“But I’m not going to tell you to do that,” he continued. “As much as I want to.”
A mixture of relief and disappointment coursed through me.
“We have guests coming to dinner tonight,” he explained. “Important guests who are anxious to meet my fiancée.”
“I’m sure they will be delighted to find out that you’ve forced me to be your fiancée by threatening to murder my best friend and her eight-year-old child,” I hissed.
“They already know,” Cristian replied, not rattled by my tone.
“Of course they do. I shouldn’t be surprised that you keep company with people who aren’t bothered by that.” Poison infused my words. Although I was lying, it did surprise me, just a little. I couldn’t believe there were more people who accepted this madness. But that was because I didn’t have the mindset of a mafia wife. Even if I didn’t want that title, I needed to understand what it meant. Needed to understand I’d be interacting with an entirely different breed of humans. They didn’t play by any rules, they didn’t blink at violence and death. They wouldn’t have pity for me. Wouldn’t save me. Moreover, if I started acting like a woman that needed to be saved, I’d be signing my own death warrant. Something inside me told me that. I needed to play the part. Needed to make sure that people thought this was my choice, that I still had agency. That I was just as dangerous as my future husband.
