He moved closer, slow and deliberate, sitting on the edge of the bed a few feet from me. The mattress dipped under his weight, radiating warmth and danger at the same time. “It’s... cute,” he said finally, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “That you’re already jealous of me touching another woman. On the very first day of our three-month marriage.”
He emphasized ‘three month’ deliberately, testing me, gauging how much I cared, watching for the flicker of emotion he could exploit.
The words landed like a punch. I’d known from the beginning this was a contract, a fleeting arrangement—a publiccharade with an expiration date everyone in Lake Como would notice. But hearing him say it aloud, so casually, twisted something deep inside me that had nothing to do with reason.
I turned my face away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
My throat felt tight, a mix of heat and frustration choking me. The silence stretched between us, thick with all the things we weren’t saying: anger, desire, regret, and a yearning I could not allow myself to acknowledge.
He leaned back slightly, letting the shadows of the room play over his face, the tension coiled in his posture as palpable as mine.
“I only helped an injured woman. That’s all,” Dmitri said quietly, his voice stripped of any defensiveness, as if the mere truth should make everything simple.
I sat rigid on the edge of the bed, arms crossed tightly over my chest, the damp fabric of my sweater clinging unpleasantly to my skin. “You don’t owe me explanations,” I replied, sharper than I intended. “She’s your mistress, after all. Forced or not, she’s here because of you. She deserves your attention more than I do.”
His exhale was slow, measured, carrying a weight that pressed into the room. “She is not my mistress, Pen. Never was, never will be. She and her family manipulated their way into this house—kidnapping a child to force my hand. I’d sooner cut my own throat than touch her willingly.”
I said nothing. Couldn’t. The image of Seraphina draped over him, the smear of blood on his bare skin, the smug glint in her eyes—it seared behind my eyelids. Jealousy, fierce and animal, coiled in my chest, spitting venom. My pulse thundered against my ribs.
Dmitri moved closer, and the mattress shifted under his weight as he lay down beside me. “Go change,” he said softly,tone carrying a quiet command masked in care. “Your clothes are soaked. Put on a proper nightgown—not jeans and a sweater, like you’re ready to bolt at any moment.”
I rose without a word, refusing to meet his gaze.
In the bathroom, I peeled off the cold, clinging layers and stepped under the hot water, letting it scald the chlorine and strip away the lingering unease of the pool.
Steam curled around me, a fleeting shield against my own thoughts. I lingered longer than necessary, letting the warmth seep into my bones, reminding me I was alive, that I was here, and that he was just beyond the bathroom door.
Finally, I emerged, slipping into a simple silk nightgown—pale gray, soft as whispers. It clung lightly, a modesty that felt almost foreign in Dmitri’s presence. When I returned, he was still awake, propped against the headboard, low-slung sweatpants replacing the towel. The lamplight carved shadows across his chest, highlighting the scars I once knew by heart, each one a map of pain, survival, and a history I was not sure I could ever fully untangle.
He watched me cross the room, eyes tracking, intense and unyielding. I slid under the covers on my side—far from him—and deliberately curled toward the edge, creating distance as if I could make an ocean between us.
The silence stretched, thick and expectant. My heartbeat echoed in my ears, loud enough that I feared it would betray my inner turmoil.
Then, the mattress shifted again. His arm slid across the sheets, tentative yet insistent, searching until it found my waist. Gently, carefully, he tugged, drawing me back toward him. “Come here,” he murmured, voice low and coaxing. “It’s cold. Let me warm you.”
I stiffened, fighting the pull, trying to anchor myself in logic and restraint. “I’m fine,” I said, though my voice trembled more than I wanted.
“I know you are,” he countered softly, voice threading around the edges of the space between us. “But I am not.” His hand moved slightly, brushing against the small of my back. “I will not leave you shivering alone.”
My resolve wavered. The warmth of him, the familiar scent of him, the undeniable weight of his presence pressed into me like gravity. I could feel the pull, the silent promise of protection and danger wrapped into one impossible man.
His arm encircled me, snug and possessive, pulling me closer until my back pressed to the solid plane of his chest. I could feel the steady drum of his heartbeat, the heat radiating from him, the gentle rise and fall of his breathing against mine.
“Better?” he asked quietly, lips brushing the top of my hair.
I swallowed hard, words lodged somewhere between pride, fear, and desire.
His thumb traced a slow, absent circle against the silk at my hip, a touch so light it was almost worse than pressure. Familiar. Intimate. Dangerous.
“You’re still angry,” he said quietly.
“I’m tired,” I corrected, keeping my voice flat, brittle at the edges.
Another tug—gentler than before, but more certain. “Pen.”
“No.” I shifted farther away, pressing myself toward the edge of the mattress until there was nowhere left to retreat. My back met open air, a precarious drop. “Just... sleep, Dmitri. Please.”
He froze. The word ‘please’ landed between us like a boundary he hadn’t expected. After a long pause, his hand withdrew.
