At the end of the corridor, he shoulders open double doors into the primary suite.The room is vast, all cool stone and pale wood, dominated by a bed that could swallow entire families.
A wall of glass faces the same endless view of pool and hills and sky.My stomach knots tighter.Anyone out there with binoculars, anyone on the lower terraces, anyone with a scope could watch us right now.The thought burns like acid.
He crosses the room in three long strides and sets me on my feet beside the bed.The gown’s hem pools around my ankles as I kick off my remaining shoe.
Before I can step back, he turns, walks to the windows, and drags the heavy linen drapes closed with one decisive motion.The room plunges into soft shadow.Only the bedside lamps remain, their glow intimate, private, merciless.
“No one sees what belongs to me.”His voice is low and final.
I lift my chin.“I’m not yours.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, tracing the rapid rise and fall of my breasts beneath the bodice.“So you say.”
After closing and locking the bedroom doors, he returns to me slowly, each step measured, giving me time to feel the air thicken between us.
The backs of my legs meet the edge of the mattress before I realize I’ve retreated.
My husband doesn’t crowd me.
Instead, he captures my shoulders and turns me so that my back is to him.
I squeeze my eyes shut, hating every moment, despising his touch.
Slowly he begins working the tiny satin buttons free, one by one.
He’s steady and patient, the rough pads grazing my spine each time the fabric parts another inch.Cool air kisses newly exposed skin.
Despite myself, I suck in a tiny, desperate breath.
The bodice loosens.
His breath warm on my shoulders, he begins to draw it down.
Even though I’m still wearing a strapless bra, I frantically fold my arms across my chest, holding onto my modesty as long as I can.
“Nothing will stop me from seeing every beautiful inch of my wife’s body.”
I scoff.“Like you did the night you kidnapped me?”
Why the hell do I need to goad him like this?I’d do better to remember the advice I’ve given others.Speak only when necessary.
To his credit, he doesn’t react.
Instead, he brushes the delicate lace at my hips with his thumbs, reading every tremor I cannot hide.
“Look at me, Valentina.”
He turns me again so that I’m facing him.
“I told you to look at me.”
Refusing, I focus on the open collar of his shirt, on the strong column of his throat, anywhere but his face.
His knuckles—still smeared—brush my jaw, tilting my chin up anyway.“You will not hide from this.”The touch is not gentle, but it is certain.“From me.”
Despite every instinct that’s screaming at me, I meet his gaze.
His eyes are dark, steady, reading every microreaction I cannot control.I hope he sees the fury.The fear I have for my brother.The way I hate this.
