“Is it true? Are you a virgin, little dove?”
The question should offend me. It should make me slap him across his handsome face and demand to know what business it is of his. Instead, I feel heat flood my cheeks as I nod once, unable to force the word past my lips.
"Why do you call me that?" I ask, desperate to change the subject. "Little dove?"
He doesn't answer, just looks at me with an expression that holds equal parts adoration and desire, and I realize that some questions aren't meant to be answered with words.
He pampers me for the next hour, feeding me strawberries dipped in dark chocolate and pouring me small glasses of bourbon that burn pleasantly on the way down. He never tellsme the cost of my wish, deflecting every question with another strawberry, another sip of liquor, another brush of his fingers against my skin that leaves me breathless and wanting.
When his phone rings, he excuses himself to take the call, and I finally have a moment to explore my gilded cage.
The penthouse is massive, room after room of expensive furniture and priceless art, but there's something missing that I can't quite identify until I realize what it is—there are no photographs. No family portraits, no snapshots of friends, no evidence that Rafael Milano has ever loved or been loved by anyone. It's the home of a man who exists in isolation, surrounded by beautiful things that can't hurt him.
I wander toward his office, drawn by the sound of his voice through the partially open door. I go to move away, but he’s by the door and pulling me in before I can retreat. He moves across the office and settles into a large chair behind an even larger desk.
He tugs me toward him, pulling me to stand between his spread thighs while he continues his conversation. His free hand settles on my hip, anchoring me in place, and I don't know what to think of this man who holds me like something precious while discussing business with the same cold efficiency he showed at the church.
His shoulders are relaxed in a way I haven't seen before, and I realize that whoever is on the other end of the line has earned his trust. That is a rare commodity in his world. His eyes drift over my body as he speaks, caressing the swell of my breasts and the curve of my hips with a hunger that makes heat pool low in my belly.
He ends the call and stands in one fluid motion, lifting me easily and settling me on the edge of his desk. The wood is cool against the backs of my thighs, and I grip the edge to steady myself as he steps between my legs.
The last of the sunlight spills through the large wall of windows at my back. The curtains are thrown open and the large expanse of glass reveals the city below us.
“I was wrong,” he murmurs, reaching for the clasp of the bolero and releasing it. My breasts sway slightly and he gives an appreciative growl.
I tense. I never once thought of having to explain the scars on my back.
Instead of removing the bolero, he reaches around and loosens the zipper holding the bodice of my dress in place with agonizing slowness. Little by little the pressure holding my ample breasts in place releases and proof of my growing arousal becomes apparent when he reveals the hard tips of my nipples.
His eyes roam over the dusty pink tips.
“About what?” I turn my gaze to his. In the low light of the office I watch his pupils dilate, and the deep gray of his eyes shift to reveal hints of silver. He’s absolutely stunning to look at, but looks don’t make for a happily ever after. This is business and I will do good to remember that.
The silk pools at my waist, leaving me bare from the shoulders down except for the bolero spread over my shoulders. Rafael's gaze tracks over my exposed skin like a physical touch.
“Stunning,” he murmurs in a throaty husk. “That night at the Scarlet Thorn, I thought you were the most beautiful creature I had ever seen.” He traces the line of my collarbone with one finger, following the path down to the swell of my breast. “I was wrong. You're even more exquisite in the sunlight.”
A knock at the door shatters the moment, and I scramble to pull my bodice back in place as a massive man with ice-colored eyes and a Russian accent appears in the doorway.
“Konstantin.” Rafael’s voice carries a warning that the other man either doesn't hear or chooses to ignore.
“We have a problem.” The Russian's gaze flicks to me briefly before returning to Rafael. “Magnus is already making moves. You need to see this.”
Rafael’s jaw tightens, and I can see the war playing out behind his eyes—desire versus duty, want versus need. Duty wins, as I suspect it always does with men like him.
“I have to go.” He cups my face in his hands and presses a kiss to my forehead that feels more like a promise of more to come than a firm goodbye. “You will sleep in my room tonight. End of the hall, last door on the right. You'll find everything you need in the closet.” His thumb traces my lower lip, and his voice drops to something low and dangerous. "When I return, we will talk about the terms of your wish. Sleep well, my little dove.”
And then he's gone, leaving me sitting on his desk in a ruined wedding dress, surrounded by the empty luxury of his penthouse, wondering what kind of bargain I've made with the devil himself.
Eight
Persia
It has been two weeks of waking up to an empty bed and a pillow that smells like cedar and smoke and the ghost of a man who holds me in the dark but won't look me in the eye come morning.
Mainly because he’s never here.
Every night is the same. I lie in the enormous California king that swallows me whole and stare at the ceiling where the ambient glow of Chicago's skyline paints shifting patterns through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
