What the fuck did I do?
He gave me an out. Why didn’t I take it? Why did I hand him something I swore to keep until I was married? Is he so in my head that I want everything he can give me?
I press a hand to the wall and inhale slowly, trying to gather pieces of myself from the floor. He wasn’t soft, he wasn’t slow. It wasn’t how anyone dreams their first time should be.
It was war, and I surrendered.
The light hits my finger reminding me of the weight upon it, the death ring and it only makes me think again, what did I do?
Did I bleed, and that's how Matteo knew it was my first time, or did he just know? When I marry, how will I explain I’m no longer pure? I blink, and a tear escapes. There is nothing I cando now. I shove the thought aside. I have four years to figure out that problem.
I need to work on the problem I have now.
The man in black, who has more sins than I can ever count. Matteo Messina.
I smooth my dress and walk back toward the ballroom. Step by step, the noise grows louder, the music, laughter, the clinking of glasses.
I pass through the archway smiling at students, pretending nothing happened.
I’m not even surprised Conor finds me within seconds. “Where the hell have you been?” he asks, leaning in close. His voice is low. Stern. Suspicious.
“Toilet,” I say without missing a beat.
He eyes me.
I don’t blink.
In a mafia family, you learn to lie with your face, not your mouth.
Conor steps back, watching me closely. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
I’m not, I’m so far from fine. All I want to do is run outside and let the cold wind hit me, punish me, for the sin I just committed.
I feel him on me, his breath, his hands, his teeth, the burn of him inside me. It hurt, but I didn’t want it to stop.
I scan the ballroom. He’s gone, and I don’t know if I feel relieved or disappointed.
The truth, I let the enemy touch me. I let him inside.
And now he’s under my skin. He broke me open.
And worst of all, I liked it.
Conor doesn’t believe me, I can see it in the way his eyes narrow, in the way he hovers like a bodyguard who’s ready tokill. His hand comes to rest at my lower back. It makes my skin crawl, not because it’s Conor, but because it isn’t him.
God, what the hell is wrong with me?
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks louder, the string quartet playing something eerie and elegant.
I nod. “Just a little too much champagne,” I lie again. “Yes, just needed to step away.”
“You were gone awhile,” he says, not pushing it, but not dropping it either.
I turn to face him fully, trying not to flinch. “Are you going to start acting like my fiancé now too?”
The words land hard; he straightens. “You know I didn’t want this arrangement.” His words are soft, but they mean nothing to me.
