Her eyes flick to the second vehicle. Maybe she’s nervous about the danger. About the reality of marrying into our family.
“The second SUV is just precaution,” I tell her trying to ease her worry.
To my surprise, she nods calmly. “I assumed. My father never sent me anywhere without security.”
That throws me for a second. She isn’t nervous about the guns or the men. So why does she look… uneasy?
Once we’re in the SUV and the doors close, I ask, “If you’re used to security, why do you look nervous?”
She stares out the window. “I’m not.”
Her fingers immediately tug her shirt again—small, quick, like she hopes I won’t notice.
“I mean this,” I say, nodding toward her hand. “The shirt.”
Her back goes rigid.
“Oh.” Her voice cracks, barely audible. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was doing it. I won’t do it in front of anyone. I promise. I won’t embarrass you.”
There it is—the flinch I hate. The apology for breathing. The instinct to make herself small. Before she can shrink any further, I reach across the space and gently catch her wrist. She goes perfectly still, her other hand curling into a fist on her lap.
“Elena,” I say quietly. “You aren’t an embarrassment.” Her eyes flick up to mine, uncertain. Almost disbelieving. “Why are you pulling on your shirt?”
She exhales, defeated. “I… hate it.”
My brows lift. “Then why wear it?”
Her lips part slightly, and before she can stop herself, she whispers, “…because it’s the least thing I hated.”
My chest tightens. And then the truth hits me like a punch. They chose her clothes. The anger is instant and sharp.
“They chose your clothes?” The words come harsher than intended. She stiffens again. Back straight. Shoulders tight. Eyes down. I tighten my hold on her hand—not enough to hurt, just enough to ground her. “I’m not angry at you.”
A breath slips from her chest, shaky.
“I’ll fix it,” I say, voice dropping low. “All of it.”
She looks at me—really looks—and something unspoken passes between us. Some kind of acknowledgment. The rest of the ride is quiet. Not awkward. Not tense. Just… quiet. Her hand stays in mine until the SUV slows in front of our destination.
Chapter 7
The SUV slows to a stop in front of a large warehouse, its metal siding faded from years of sun and salt. I don’t know where we are or why we’re here, but Alessandro squeezes my hand once before letting go.
“Wait for me,” he murmurs, already opening his door.
The second his palm leaves mine, a strange ache settles in my chest. I shouldn't feel that way. I barely know him. But no one has ever held my hand like that before—steady, warm, like it meant something.
I watch him circle around the SUV, tall and sure and so completely in control of every inch of space around him. The way the men watch him… it’s with respect. With certainty. When he opens my door, I take his offered hand automatically.
“What is expected of me?” I ask quietly.
He raises a brow. “Expected?”
“Yes… I mean…” I swallow, embarrassed. “How am I supposed to act?”
His lips part like he’s about to snap, but instead he steps closer, cupping my cheeks gently in his palms. The touch steals my breath. “Elena,” he says softly, “just be yourself. Stay next to me. Always.” His thumb brushes my cheek. “You go where I go.”
Heat blooms low in my stomach at the words—an order, yes, but something else too.
