The color drains from her face, but she holds my gaze. "I'm a Hewson. Isn't that enough?"
"Not even close." I brush a strand of hair from her face, noting how she fights not to recoil. "But don't worry. I have all night to learn everything about you. I promise to make it… memorable."
The bridal suite door looms ahead. King bed draped in ivory silk, champagne cooling in silver, roses everywhere because someone thought this was a real wedding night. The irony isn't lost on me. This is a wedding night, just not the kind anyone imagined.
"After you, Mrs.Rosetti." I gesture her inside with mock gallantry.
She enters on unsteady legs, each step measured like she's walking to her execution. The white silk of her dress catches the light from the suite's windows, making her look ethereal, untouchable. But she's very touchable now. Legally mine to do with as I please.
I follow her in, and the lock engages with a click that makes her whole body go rigid. The sound echoes in the silence between us, final as a coffin closing. She knows what it means. No escape. No interruptions. Just the two of us and whatever truths I can extract from that trembling mouth.
"Turn around, wife." My voice drops to something darker than the promise I made at the altar. The playful mask I wear for the world slides away, revealing something hungrier beneath. "Let me see what the Hewsons really sent me."
She turns slowly, hands fisted in her skirts. The afternoon light streaming through the windows backlights her, turning the white silk translucent. I can see the outline of her body beneath. The curve of her waist, the shadow between her breasts where the corset pushes them together. My cock hardens at the sight, at the knowledge that she's mine to unwrap like a gift I never asked for but suddenly want very badly.
"Every." I step closer, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "Single." Another step, and now I can smell her. That mix of expensive perfume and fear-sweat that's more intoxicating than it has any right to be. "Inch."
3 - Emma
“Every. Single. Inch.”
The words hang between us like a blade, and I can't breathe. Alessandro circles me slowly, a predator savoring the moment before the kill.
"Don't worry, princess. I've unwrapped enough presents to know how to do it without tearing the paper. Unless, of course, you prefer it rough. Some of my favorites do."
The white silk of my wedding dress—Frances's dress—feels like tissue paper under his gaze, offering no protection from those green eyes that see too much.
"The zipper," he says, voice dark as the devil. "Undo it."
My hands shake as I reach behind me, fumbling with the delicate zipper. Mrs.Hewson had it sewn specifically to be difficult, requiring help to remove. A virgin's protection, she'd said with that sharp smile. But there's nothing protective about the way Alessandro watches me struggle, his patience more terrifying than anger would be.
"I can't reach—"
"Then ask nicely." He settles into the suite's leather chair like a king on his throne, crystal tumbler of whiskey appearing in his hand from the bar cart. "Ask your husband for help."
The word 'husband' singes my ears. This man thinks I'm Frances Hewson. Thinks he's married to a princess, not the servant. If he knew the truth…
"Please," I whisper, hating how small my voice sounds. "Help me."
"Come here."
Each step toward him feels like walking through quicksand. The carpet is plush beneath my silk shoes—shoes that cost more than I made in three months. When I'm close enough, he sets down his glass and spins me with surprising gentleness, his fingers finding the zipper with practiced ease.
"Tell me about Switzerland," he says casually, guiding me through the suite. "The Hewsons mentioned you were at one of those exclusive schools."
My pulse quickens. I force myself to nod, keeping my answer vague. "It was… peaceful," I manage.
"Peaceful." He repeats the word slowly, testing it. "I imagine it would be, hidden away from the world," he muses, breath warm against my neck as he works the zipper down tooth by tooth. "They must have changed you considerably. Your hands, for instance."
I freeze. "My hands?"
"Calluses, Frances. Faint, but there." The zipper stops at the small of my back, cool air kissing newly exposed skin. "What exactly were they teaching you in Switzerland? Manual labor?"
"I—tennis. Lots of tennis." The lie comes out strangled.
"Tennis." His finger traces my spine, making me shiver. "And this scar here, just below your shoulder blade? Also tennis?"
The scar from when I fell carrying a tray of crystal, cutting myself on the shards while Mrs.Hewson screamed about the expense. I can't tell him that.
