“Well, it doesn’t matter because it can’t ever happen again,” I say, trying to sound tough even though my lips are still tingling. “I don’t want to put you in danger.”
And even as I say it, I’m lost in the memory of it, wishing it could happen over and over again. The heat of his body, the pressure of his hands, the taste of him…my thighs press together involuntarily. He doesn’t respond and we drive in silence, but I can feel him watching me at every stoplight. The tension in the car is so thick it makes it hard to breathe.
By the time we pull through the estate gates, I’ve rehearsed a dozen ways to ask what this means. He never responded. Did I think he would? Did I want him to argue? What are we to each other? Still, I don’t ask any of it out loud.
We walk to the house side by side, close enough that our hands brush, sending sparks up my arm every time. At the door, he stops and turns to face me.
“Thank you for taking me to the gardens,” I blurt out. “It was beautiful. I’m glad I got to see it.”
He studies my face while I wait for him to say something…anything to acknowledge what happened between us. Instead, he leans down and kisses my forehead, his lips barely brushing my skin, like I’m back to being a child again.
“Goodnight, little Datura,” he says as he opens the door and gestures for me to walk inside. Then he walks away,disappearing down the forbidden hallway, leaving me alone in the foyer.
Anger and confusion…maybe even hurt, course through my body. I touch my fingers to my forehead, trying to figure out what just happened. Was that his way of closing the door? Or opening one? The kiss felt like both a promise and a goodbye, and I don’t know which one to believe. Am I imagining all of this?
I trudge up to my room with my mind spinning. He kissed me back though. God, did he kiss me back…but then he pulled away. He brought me to see beautiful things, then left me standing alone afterward. He calls me by the name of a deadly flower, but touches me like I’m something precious.
In my bathroom, I stare at my reflection. My lips are still swollen and my cheeks are flushed. Do I look different? Older or more mature? Did kissing him change me? I roll my eyes at my ridiculous thoughts. Of course it didn’t.
“What are you doing, Liana?” I whisper out loud. “You’re engaged to another man.”
But thinking about Rio, a faceless stranger who bought me like property, doesn’t make me feel anything. I don’t feel fear or excitement. I don’t feel anything anymore. Just emptiness.
Frankie, though…He makes me feel like I’m burning up from the inside out. I splash cold water on my face and crawl into bed, but sleep won’t come. Every time I close my eyes, I feel his hands on my waist and his mouth on mine. I toss and turn for at least an hour, twisting the sheets around me, until finally I give up and grab one of my new books.
The words blur together as I attempt to read but my mind is too full of Frankie to care about anyone else’s story. After what feels like many more hours, I finally doze off just as dawn breaks, the book open on my chest, dreaming of poisonous flowers and tattooed hands.
Chapter Twelve
Liana
Iwake tangled in my own sheets again. My skin is hot and sticky and my mouth is still tinged with the taste of him. For a split second, I almost wish Frankie was here, that wild hunger burning in his eyes, ready to finish what we started last night. I sigh out loud because I know that won’t ever be the case. I’m alone and all that’s left is the deep ache in my thighs and raw energy buzzing under my skin.
The book I fell asleep with is half-crushed beneath my hip, pages bent and spine ruined. I can’t remember a single word I read last night. Just flashes light up my memories…Frankie’s hand clamped around my waist as his teeth raked over my lip and his chest heaving against mine. It was urgent and desperate and everything I've ever imagined.
I drag myself to the shower and crank the water scalding hot, trying to scrub him off me, because I know I shouldn’t be imagining him touching me again. It’s pointless because the evidence is everywhere. There’s a small bruise blooming along my ribs where he held me too tight and the sharp sting fromwhere I bit my tongue to keep from moaning. He’s burned himself into me and under my skin…in places no one else will ever see…not even my future husband.
After my shower, I pull on jeans and a t-shirt. Something much more plain than how I’m feeling right now. I try to lose myself in the routine I've established over the past few weeks. Make the bed…something I never did back home. Line up my books neatly even though there are barely enough to cover one bookshelf. Count the steps to the kitchen again…still ninety-seven. Same as yesterday and the day before. Still a prisoner.
Pita’s waiting and ready for my entrance, like always. A tray of fruit and toast or whatever delicious breakfast she’s decided to prepare for me for that day, sitting in my same spot at the long empty table. She’s extra quiet this morning though as she watches me eat. It makes me tense and I find myself preparing for her to drop a bomb. Maybe they moved my wedding date up? If I’m lucky, my husband decided to marry someone else instead. ‘Send me back to Italy,’ I want to scream. Do I though? Now that I’ve seen this side of Frankie? Do I want to go back to my old prison? I’m not sure which is worse. Being locked up but having my family or being around someone I know I'll never be able to have. Depressing.
“You are acting different today,” she says finally, her voice low like she’s trying to whisper a secret.
I choke on a piece of melon and wash it down with juice.
“I’m the same as always,” I say with a light laugh but she just shakes her head at me.
“No, mija. Not the same…different. Did something happen?”
The silence stretches out as I sit there like a deer caught in headlights. The air is thick and awkward and I can’t think of a single thing to say. I can’t tell her about the gardens, or the way Frankie kissed me like he wanted to devour me. I can’t tell her that he pulled me so close to his body I could feel every hardridge of him pressed against me. I can’t tell her I liked it…or that I want more. I can barely even admit it to myself. I pick at my breakfast and stare at the tile, counting the flecks of black in each square until my eyes blur.
‘Please don’t ask me any more questions,’I silently pray as I act far more interested in my food than I am at the moment.
“You are scared of something,” Pita says.
It’s not a question and it makes me flinch. How does this woman see through me so well? She’s like a fricking wizard.
“Wouldn’t you be scared if you were set to marry a stranger in a completely new country?”
