He deserves that after what he said to me on that platform.“And until you believe that my family had nothing to do with the assassination of your father—that we were stunned when we heard the news—there’s nothing at all I have to offer you.”
Before he can respond, a complimentary dessert and coffee are brought to the table.
Even though I want to resist the double chocolate confection, I can’t.And a single bite of the perfection is completely satisfying.
No bill is delivered.
And we leave after Moretti thanks the owner.
The ride to the Harris County Clerk’s Office is way too short, the city blurring past while his knee presses against mine.
Though he’s checking his phone, possessiveness radiates from him.
When we enter the cool lobby, he keeps me close, his palm at the small of my back again.
At the counter the clerk smiles professionally, and Moretti produces his ID as well as my own.
The sight of my driver’s license—neatly tucked beside his black credit card—ignites a wave of fresh irritation.
He’s had it since the rooftop incident, of course, along with everything else, but seeing it now, handled so casually, is a reminder of his power and my helplessness.
The clerk processes everything efficiently.
I can’t help but notice that Moretti is always on guard.He angles his body to shield me from the handful of other people in the room, as if he’s staking his claim.
When the marriage license is issued, he tucks it inside his suit coat and returns our IDs to his wallet, his gesture so proprietary my pulse spikes again.
“I want my phone back,” I tell him when we’re once again in the vehicle, with him typing into his device.
He meets my gaze.“I’m sure you do.”
I grit my teeth.
With every mile that passes, bringing us closer to his house, my pulse pounds harder.
Being in the car, at lunch, the clerk’s office, the bridal shop, with him dictating my life, is maddening.But being alone in his bedroom is awful.And having him in the space is even worse.
When we reach his Houston compound, he escorts me straight upstairs, hand firm at my elbow, past the guards who don’t meet my eyes.The hallway feels narrower, the stairs endless, each step pulling the dress across my skin and reminding me how exposed I still feel.At the door to what is now our room—my prison—he pauses.
I stop beside him, the words rising before I can swallow them.“You’re seriously going to keep marching me around like this?Your prisoner in silk and heels?”
He doesn’t answer with words.
Once we’re inside, he shuts the door.Outside, a lock is clicked into place.
I move away from him, putting as much distance between us as I can.
He remains just inside the threshold and folds his arms across his ridiculously broad chest and looks at me with eyes gone cold and hard.“A prisoner?Yes.”
His terrible expression leaves me breathless.
“In silk and heels?”He shakes his head.“No.”
Confused, I frown.“Then…”
“Strip for me, Valentina.”
The command lands like a slap.My heart stutters, then races.“Are you out of your mind?”
