“And you think I would?”
“I think you’re smart enough to survive, whatever that requires.”
It’s not exactly a declaration of trust, but coming from him, it might as well be.
The rest of the evening passes without incident. We bid politely on a few pieces, donate the expected amount to the museum’s endowment, and play the part of devoted newlyweds for the cameras.
But all I can think about is the heat of his hand on my back, the way his eyes track my movements across the room, the memory of how he looked at me when I came down the stairs.
By the time we’re in the car heading home, the tension between us is thick enough to cut.
“You did well tonight,” he says, loosening his tie.
“Did I meet expectations?”
“You exceeded them.”
The praise shouldn’t matter as much as it does. But after years of being told I was worthless, every acknowledgment of my competence feels like oxygen.
“The Benedettis liked you,” he continues. “Elena especially. That’s not easy to earn.”
“She reminds me of my grandmother. Before she died.”
“What was she like?”
“Strong. Stubborn. She used to say that women in our family don’t break, we just bend until we find a new shape.”
He’s quiet for a moment, processing this. “She was wise.”
“She would have liked you.”
“Would she?”
“She appreciated dangerous men. She said they were honest about what they wanted.”
“Hmm. Can you guess what I want?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with three days of unspoken tension. I could give him a safe answer, something about business or respect or family loyalty.
Instead, I meet his eyes in the reflection of the window. “Control. Power. And me, whenever you stop being too proud to admit it.”
His pupils dilate, and I know I’ve hit the target.
“Careful, Kasimira.”
“Or what?”
“Or I might give you exactly what you’re asking for.”
The promise in his voice makes my pulse race. By the time we reach the estate, my skin feels too tight, and every breath comes too shallow.
We walk into the house in silence, our footsteps echoing off marble floors. At the bottom of the stairs, he stops.
“Goodnight,” he says, his voice carefully controlled.
I want to say goodnight back, go to my room like a good wife, and pretend my body isn’t burning for his touch, but I step closer instead.
“Alaric.”
