As Mrs.Moretti.
The title clings to my skin the same way the wedding gown still does, heavy with lace and promise and the faint metallic scent of the blood he never bothered to wash from his knuckles.
My brother’s face flashes behind my eyes, unaccounted for since the cathedral, and the not-knowing coils more tightly than any rope they could have used on me.
“Shall we get started?”
“Started?”I blink.
“You’re my wife.”Without hurry, he moves closer, the soft scrape of his dress shoes against stone the only sound besides the distant hum of the air-conditioning.
Even though I want to stand my ground, I back up a step, the hem of the gown whispering around my ankles like a warning I cannot heed.
“You’re my wife,” he repeats quietly, with conviction, as if that explains everything.“And I will claim you in every way.”
Shock leaves me frozen in place.Here?Now?
The reality of our marriage crashes through me in a cold wave.Surely he can wait until tonight.Even the Moretti enforcer has to understand that some things are not rushed like a business transaction.
He brings his bloodied hand up and strokes my cheekbone.Heart thundering, I grab hold of his wrist in a vain attempt to stop him from touching me.
“I don’t think you understand, princess.You’re mine.And I will have you.”
Gently, mesmerizingly, he continues those low, sensual strokes with his finger, the rough pad tracing the line of my jaw as though he has all the time in the world to map what now legally belongs to him.
“We are going to consummate this marriage, Mrs.Moretti.And we’re going to do it now.”
The words settle over me like another layer of silk I cannot shed, and something inside my chest tightens until breathing feels like a calculated risk.I feel the signed license somewhere in Houston like a chain already locked around my throat, the forced vows still echoing in my ears, the soldiers outside every terrace and door reminding me that I am completely under Moretti control.
My brother’s absence from the ceremony sharpens every edge of my fury until it cuts from the inside out.
I was raised to expect a political marriage someday—cold, strategic, arranged by my father with the same precision he used to balance alliances—but not like this.Not kidnapped.Not forced down the aisle by a man who spilled blood on our wedding day.Not to the enemy who slipped a drug into my Sicilian Velvet and turned my world into this.
But if this is the way he wants it…
Angling my chin deliberately, I meet his gaze.“Fine.Let’s get it over with.”
His gaze narrows as I reach back toward the tiny row of satin-covered buttons at my back.
I’m happy to strip off this hated gown and burn it.
I’ll do this on my terms.
The first button slips free beneath my touch.
His finger stills.“Valentina…”
Still determined, I release the second.
“Stop.”
Ignoring him, I reach for the third.
He clamps a hand over mine.“Stop.”
The contact is controlled—firm enough to stop me, not hard enough to bruise—but it still sends a jolt straight down my spine.“What difference does it make?”
He does not speak at first.He simply holds my wrist, thumb resting over the flutter of my pulse.
