“And you are mine.”
He’s swirling his wine as he says this, but his eyes rise to meet mine. Smoldering and unreadable. “It’s been made to work before. This alliance.”
“Insurance.”
The barest, sharpest hint of a smile. “Yes.” He meets me beside the fire again, but keeps his distance, gazing into the flames. I hate that I could look at him forever there, limned in firelight. Those curls, those eyes, that body…it’s a cruel twist of fate, that my enemy, my future husband, should be so painfully beautiful. “Make Sabine and the other servants aware of your needs. Whatever they may be, trust they will be met.”
I hug myself tighter. The fire is warm, and my skin burning at his proximity. But I don’t want to move away, and show my weakness. I need to be strong now, or I know I will break later.
“What do I call you?” I ask, biting my cheek. “Master?”
He chuckles, and the soft timbre of the sound takes my breath away. “Santo is fine, Dani.”
Dani.On his tongue, my name sounds like nothing I’ve ever heard before. “Santo.”
“It is a strange place, isn’t it? A no-man’s land.”
I look at him, puzzled by the thoughtfulness of his tone. He’s unpredictable, this man. My father warned me of the danger of living in his house, of belonging to him. I don’t know what I expected—but it wasn’t this. “What is?”
“Enemies, lovers. We can’t be anything but what we are.” He shifts, studies me. “When we are wed, then.”
My face burns again as I remember what he said.Would that please you?My breath hitches, and I wonder if he can see the inexperience in my face. What would he make of it?
Knowing he will be my first?
“You must be tired, Dani.” He reaches for me and I flinch. For a moment, his hand hovers between us and my heart pounds, with shame, fear. Regret. I’m torn down the middle. I want to set the boundary.
I also want him to break it.
“Go to bed,” he commands, his face shutting, slow and sure as a portcullis. “We will discuss this further in the morning.”
“Goodnight,” is all I manage, clumsily, before turning in a whorl of heavy skirts and making for the stairs. “And thank you.” When I look back, I find Santo Amata gazing at me, expression inscrutable and beautiful as a painting.
“For what, pray tell?”
“I…” I don’t know. Not hurting me? Not forcing me? Not conquering me on the night of our first meeting?Giving me the illusion of a choice?“Goodnight.”
I know I don’t imagine the smile, faint and fine on his lips. It’s emblazoned in my mind as I rush upstairs, as I demur from dinner and undress with the help of the maids, as Sabine watches me with shrewd eyes, as I climb into an unfamiliar bed and turn off an unfamiliar light.
I lie in the dark, unsure of what I’ve gotten myself into. Unsure of everything.
Except one thing.
By the fire there, after a moment of fear, and fury, and strange truce—I wanted Santo Amata to touch me.
And that is the most terrifying part of it all.
* * *
When I wake, I don’t know where I am.
It takes me a moment for the memories to rise, catching me in tidelines. My father. The deal. Me.
Santo.
My blood heats at the memory of him. What did I say last night, by the fire? Why did I think it was a good idea to piss him off on the night of our first meeting?
I sit up, struck by the vastness of the room and everything in it. Cold, clear morning light pours white through gauzy drapes, painting everything ghostly pale. The bed is enormous, four-post, laden with silk and brocade. Most of the furniture is antique, ornate and burnished: the chest at the foot of my bed, the armoire, the wardrobe, bookshelves, vanity; the three matching claw-footed mirrors, arranged on the far wall like a window.
