CHAPTER TWELVE
Bianca
Two days.
It's been two days since Dante tore Adrian's shirt off me and looked at me like?—
I can't finish that thought without my face heating up.
Two days of avoiding him in this massive house. Two days of eating meals alone while Maria gives me sympathetic looks. Two days of lying in bed at night remembering the way his voice dropped when he saidmine, the way his fingers brushed my skin, the way my body betrayed every word that came out of my mouth.
I hate that I can't stop thinking about it.
Hate that I dream about those blue eyes darkening with barely restrained hunger as it did that night.
Hate that some traitorous parts of me wanted him to close that distance instead of stepping back.Wetparts.
Basically, I hate this place.
I'm walking down the hallway toward my room, arms full of papers I brought home from school, when I hear footsteps behind me.
"Bianca."
I stiffen and stay right where I am without turning to face him.
"What?"
"We need to discuss your wardrobe for my father's party."
"I thought you already handled that by throwing away my clothes and replacing them with your… selections."
"I did. But you need to try on the gown I chose. Make sure it fits."
Now I do turn around. He's standing there in another one of those perfect suits he always seems to have on, hands in his pockets, looking completely unaffected while I feel like I'm going to combust from the sheer proximity.
"I'm not trying on dresses for you like some kind of?—"
"Doll?" His eyebrow arches. "We've established you're not a doll, Miss Mancini. You're far too opinionated for that."
I grit my teeth. "I'm not doing it."
"Yes, you are." He takes a step closer. "Because in three days, you're going to meet my father, my family, and several very important people. And you're going to look the part. Which means we need to ensure the dress fits properly."
"Then have Maria check it."
"Maria isn't the one who needs to see you in it." Another step. "I am."
I bite my lips, wondering if I have any more excuses that can get me out of this situation.
I have none.
"Fine," I snap. "Where's the dress?"
"In your room, I would presume."
I push past him—have to brush against him in the narrow hallway—and the brief contact sends a jolt through me that I absolutely refuse to acknowledge.
My room door is closed. I shove it open, toss my papers on the desk, and head for the closet.
