Then I claim her mouth with mine.
The kiss is supposed to be ceremonial, a quick press of lips to seal the contract. But the moment I taste her, something shifts. She tastes like fear and vanilla, like secrets and reluctant surrender. Her lips are soft, pliant under mine, but I can feel the tension thrumming through her body like a live wire.
I deepen the kiss, one hand sliding to tangle in her carefully styled hair. Several pins scatter to the marble floor with tiny metallic sounds. She makes a small noise, protest or surrender, I can't tell, and her hands come up to grip my jacket like she's drowning.
For one insane second, I want to be her life raft instead of her anchor.
My tongue traces the seam of her lips, and she parts them with a shuddering breath. Her body molds against mine despite her fear, soft curves pressing through the silk. My cock stirs with interest I didn't expect from what should be a business arrangement. The kiss becomes something else then, something that has nothing to do with ceremony and everything to do with establishing ownership in front of Chicago's most dangerous families.
Her lipstick tastes like strawberries, her fear-sweat mixing with expensive perfume the Hewsons must have doused her in. Every witness in this chapel is watching me mark my territory, seeing exactly what kind of possession this marriage represents.
When I finally pull back, her lips are swollen, her carefully applied lipstick smudged. She stares up at me with eyes that have gone dark with something that isn't quite fear anymore.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Father Molina announces, clearly eager to be done with us, "I present Mr.and Mrs.Alessandro Rosetti."
The words strike her hard. Whatever mysteries surround Frances Hewson, she belongs to me now in front of every witness that matters. The knowledge settles in my chest, warm and satisfying.
My hand finds the small of her back as we turn to face our guests. "Smile, wife," I murmur against her ear. "You're under Rosetti protection now. That means you're untouchable. Except by me."
She manages something that might pass for happiness if you don't look too close. But I'm looking very close, and what I see is a woman holding herself together through sheer force of will.
The receiving line forms quickly. My family knows how to move through ceremony efficiently. I keep her pressed against my side, preventing escape while maintaining the image of newlywed affection.
"Marco," I say as my brother approaches, "meet my wife."
The words taste strange but not unpleasant. My wife. Mine.
Marco kisses her on both cheeks, and I notice how she freezes before remembering to respond. "Welcome to the family, Frances," he says, though his eyes find mine with unspoken questions.
"Please, call me…" she starts, then stops, swallowing whatever she was about to say. "Thank you."
One by one, they pay respects. Dante nods silently, his scarred throat hidden by his high collar. Sofia air-kisses with perfect feminine warmth that doesn't reach her blue eyes. Nico gives his soldier's handshake.
Through it all, I note her reactions. Her terror is there, but there's intelligence beneath it, calculation mixed with desperation.
Mrs.Hewson approaches, flustered and slightly out of breath. "Darling!" she exclaims, reaching for Frances with something that looks almost like desperation.
My bride goes rigid at her mother's embrace, and neither woman seems quite sure how to interact. Like actresses who've forgotten their choreography.
"Our chariot awaits, princess," I announce, cutting short this awkward performance. "Try not to turn into a pumpkin before midnight."
The defiance that flashes in her eyes burns unexpected and smooth. For a second, I see steel beneath the silk.
"I thought you'd prefer a compliant wife," she says, so quietly only I can hear.
"Oh, I do," I reply, guiding her toward the chapel's private entrance. "But you're not compliant, are you? You're something else entirely. And I'm going to enjoy finding out what."
The chapel doors close behind the last of our guests, leaving us alone in the vestibule. She sags slightly before catching herself, and I find myself oddly pleased that she's still fighting.
"You look ready to faint, wife. Should I carry you over the threshold, or would you prefer to walk to your doom with dignity?"
"I can walk," she says, lifting that chin again in a way that makes me want to bite it.
"Good." I key in the code for the private entrance. "The bridal suite awaits, and we have so much to discuss."
"What kind of discussion?"
I stop walking, turning her to face me fully. "The kind where we get to know each other. After all, you've been away at that Swiss boarding school for so long, I feel like I'm meeting a stranger."
