“I am your husband,” he said in Italian.
“Does this mean you only married me to call me this? Your wife? To defy my father?”
He became statue-still, his eyes boring into mine, and I knew that, if I moved a slight bit or breathed the wrong way, he was going to come for me. He was going to swoop me up, throw me over his shoulder, and attempt to haul me back to our cabin. Hewas going to show me through the power of his body how wrong my words were.
I did not feel as if they were wrong in that moment. Perhaps my heart did, but I was ignoring it. I was pissed that he did not tell me that! My family could kill him without anyone being able to stop it!
“You did not tell me that my family has the right to kill you!” My body went forward a little, only a breath. I was going for his neck.
There it was.
The movement he was anticipating.
Before I could even get that close to him, he hauled me up, threw me over his shoulder, and took me to our cabin.
We faced off—the tension between us wilder than the land around us, and we were swept up in it, hidden by it. Our anger was the only fire we had to see through the impenetrable darkness surrounding us.
Chapter 33
Sistine
If we had neighbors, they would have called the cops. Not on my husband. Onme. The drive to our cabin had been silent, but as soon as Mariano had set me on my feet, my temper had gotten the best of me, and I began to yell. I was not sure if I was shouting in English or Italian. Most definitely a mixture of the two. My temper rolled through me as if it were a freight train. Mariano omitting a partial truth was the ever-expanding tracks.
His back was straight and his arms were crossed over his chest. Not much fazed him, but I could tell by the bulging vein in his forehead that he was recording every word in that fast-working mind of his. He did not move when we were in our bedroom. He found a spot—our doorway—and blocked it.
“Why did you not tell me this!?” I shouted at him, grabbing whatever clean clothes I could find in the closet.
He waved a hand at me.
“Now is not the time to clam up, Mariano Fausti!” Perhaps my father did not look like much compared to his family, but he was formidable. He memorized rules and how to use them like a fiend. He knew how to fight the Fausti family without shedding his own blood. He utilized the power of the pen. “Talk to me!”
“I’m not going to fight to be heard.” He shrugged. “You’ll either give me a chance to speak or continue on.”
I made a frustrated noise at him, clutching the clothes so hard that, if they had necks, I would have strangled them to death. I wanted him to lose control. Fight with me over this. This was important!
“Your life is important!”
“I never said it wasn’t,” he said calmly.
“What are you saying then?” My voice, contrary to his, was not calm.
“You can’t see it right now. You’re blinded by your own rage.”
“Rage?” I barely breathed out. “That is not what this is, Mariano Fausti!” I did a complete about face and headed into the bathroom, flinging the clothes on the counter. I attempted to count to ten, to ease the burn that was irritating my temper, but it did not cool.
Mariano was crowding the bathroom doorway when I opened my eyes.
“You should rethink being that close to me,” I barely got out.
He seemed to grow even taller as he opened his arms, as if to say,take your best shot, Annie.Or would he call mebabyto anger me even further?
I had purchased a pot for eucalyptus. As fast as I could, I swiped it from the counter and flung it at him. He was too damn fast! He dodged just in time. It hit the floor with a resounding crash and basically wentsplat, if clay pieces could do so.
I lifted my chin at him. “You dare me to and then you move!”
He came at me and we met halfway, our bodies crashing into each other’s. I set my hands against his chest, pounding as if I was a damsel in distress, and it felt good to take the anger out on him this way.
How could he do this to me?
