His hand shoots up, capturing my wrist in an iron grip that doesn't hurt but makes escape impossible. "There's only one person making rules in this house."
I let my eyes drift deliberately to his lips, then back to his eyes. "For now."
Something flashes across his face—surprise, maybe even a grudging respect—before his mask of control slips back into place. He releases my wrist slowly, his fingers dragging across my pulse point where my heart hammers traitorously.
"Don't push me, Zoe," he warns, but there's a new note in his voice I can't quite identify.
I take a deliberate step back, allowing a small smile to play on my lips. "Funny. I was about to say the same to you."
I turn away, heading for the door with unhurried steps, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me rush.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Isit perfectly still as Lucrezia circles me, paintbrush in hand, her brow furrowed in concentration. Early afternoon sunlight streams through the massive windows of her studio, bathing everything in a golden glow that makes the scattered paint splatters on the hardwood floor shimmer like jewels.
"Tilt your chin just a bit," she instructs, demonstrating with her own face. "Yes—perfect. Now hold that."
I adjust my position on the stool, careful not to disturb the drape of fabric she's arranged across my shoulders. After a week in the Feretti household, I've found myself drawn to Lucrezia's studio more and more.It's become our daily ritual—breakfast with the family, followed by hours in this light-filled sanctuary where Damiano rarely ventures.
"How much longer?" I ask, trying not to move my lips too much.
"Patience," Lucrezia smiles, dabbing her brush into a blob of paint. "Beauty takes time."
The walls around us are covered with her work—landscapes, still lifes, and portraits that reveal her remarkable talent. The paintings carry an emotional weight that speaks of something deeper than mere technical skill.
"You have incredible bone structure," she comments, stepping back to study me. "Those cheekbones are a gift from the gods."
I laugh despite myself. "I think you're flattering your subject."
"Never." Lucrezia's eyes sparkle with mischief. "I only paint the truth."
There's something infectious about her spirit—something genuine that makes it difficult to maintain my guard around her. Of all the Ferettis, she's the one I hadn't planned for. In my mind, they were all monsters like Damiano. But Lucrezia is different—vibrant, artistic, full of life.
"You looked sad just now," she observes, peering at me over her canvas. "What were you thinking about?"
I snap back to attention, reminded of my purpose. "Nothing important."
"Liar." She points her paintbrush at me accusingly, leaving a tiny dot of burnt sienna on her cheek as she does. "Your eyes changed. I saw it."
"You're very observant," I deflect.
"Comes with being an artist." She shrugs, returningto her work. "And with having overprotective brothers. You learn to read the room."
I seize the opening. "They're quite controlling, aren't they?"
"God, yes." Lucrezia rolls her eyes dramatically. "Damiano's the worst. Did he give you the 'ask permission before leaving' speech?"
"Within hours of arriving."
"Welcome to the club." She dips her brush in water, swirling it clean.
"It must be difficult," I say softly.
Lucrezia's hand pauses mid-stroke. "They love me. That's their excuse for everything. But sometimes..." She trails off, then shakes her head. "Sorry. I shouldn't complain to you. It's different for me—they're my blood."
"No, please," I encourage. "I want to understand this family."
She glances up, a genuine smile warming her features. "I'm really glad he married you, you know. It's nice having another woman around. Especially one who became a close friend. Someone who gets it."
