“Your suite, Mr. Cosenza, Mrs. Cosenza.” The butler bows slightly as he hands Rem the keys. Rem passes the keys onto one of his men—Carlo, I think—and he and another guard go through the doors first.
Rem nuzzles my ear. “They’ve already done one sweep, but it never hurts to be careful.”
We’re so close I barely have to tilt my head to meet his eyes. I wonder if he sees how unnerving this is. “The guards, the security sweeps, the private entrances—it’s a lot.”
“Your life is at risk, Lena. This is all necessary to keep you safe.”
“Yes, but…” I trail off, the wider reality of my situation truly sinking in for the first time.
As Lena Haywood I was under threat, already fighting for my life. But as Lena Cosenza, I’ll forever have a target on my back. Being my husband’s wife will always mean guards and security sweeps and staying out of the limelight. Away from prying eyes and sniper rifles, maybe even from the spotlights at the symphony.
An easy trade for staying alive, an internal voice scolds. Still, it’s a shock I’m not ready for and I find myself pulling away. “I’m just realizing what my life with you is going to be like.”
“And it’s too much?” Rem’s eyes shutter. Something he does, I’m learning, when he’s bracing to hear something he isn’t going to like.
I don’t have a chance to answer. The men return, give a nod, and we enter the suite. Rem speaks to them in Italian, voice low and clipped, and then the four guards vanish. They head in different directions, melting into the shadows of the expansive suite, silent soldiers always on watch.
Alone, Rem and I look at each other. All hint of his earlier good humor is gone. That stoic expression is back, a mask to hide a vulnerability he doesn’t want me to see. The air around us crackles, electrified by too many emotions to identify. Just as it gets hard to breathe, Rem grabs my hand and leads me through several low-lit rooms and down a hallway until we reach the master bedroom.
A lightly sweet, floral scent hits me the instant we stepinside. A soft glow spreads from wall fixtures lining the room. I gasp when I see that practically every flat surface is covered with lush bouquets of pink peonies.
“They’re my favorite,” I whisper, taken aback by the sheer number of them. The room is alive with flowers, a stark contrast to the threat of death that’s been stalking so close behind. Peonies are my absolute favorite flower and completely out of season. “It’s?—”
“Too much?” Rem’s halfway across the room, partially hidden in shadow. His stance is casual, his hands tucked into his pockets, but I can feel the tension rolling off him. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he sounds…hurt.
For a heartbeat I just absorb the sight of the man who is now my husband. He’s no less predatory, no less darkly enticing, but we’ve knocked a few holes in each other’s barriers and, even in the dim room, I can glimpse slivers of the man behind the armor.
“Yes,” I say, stepping toward him. “It is too much. And it’s also exquisite. Overwhelming, exquisite, and incredibly sweet. But I have to ask...why?”
Rem retreats, staying out of reach. “Why what?”
“Why go to all this trouble? The dress, the suite, the flowers—what man forces a woman into marriage and then makes the effort to be romantic about it?”
It’s not a superficial curiosity. I’m aware that very little about my relationship with Rem makes sense, but the part of me that seems conditioned to collapse into his arms really wants to know: why does he make it seem like he actually cares?
“Why?” Rem’s voice is hard, the opposite of caring. “Why did I go to all this effort for my wife on her wedding day? Are you really asking me that? Why not ask why I didn’t drag you down the aisle by your hair and rape you in front of witnesses the second the priest pronounced us married? Is that what you think I am, Lena? The type of man who would brutalize andbully you instead of caring for and celebrating you on the first day of the rest of our lives together?”
Rem’s chest rises and falls on deep breaths. Frustration and genuine hurt pours off him. I stare. Yes, I was trying to prod an answer out of him, but I never meant to wound him. Not like this. “I wasn’t saying?—”
Rem slices the air with one hand, cutting me off. “I might do monstrous things, Lena. But I’m not a monster, whatever you might think.”
Rem is genuinely hurt and it’s gutting because Idocare. However it’s happened, whether through some trick of fate or total fluke, I care for my husband, more deeply than is wise, and I’ve just mangled things so badly he thinks the very opposite. On our wedding night, no less.
“Rem, I don’t think you’re a monster. I swear, I don’t. It’s just that I don’t really knowwhatto think. We’ve been riding this crisis roller coaster, coping with one thing after the next, and my brain hasn’t caught up. I’m just trying to figure out what’s real and what’s not. What I can trust and what I can’t. That’s all.” I reach for him.
Again, he steps away.
“I love the flowers,” I say quietly. “Thank you.”
For a second, I think he’s going to ignore me. Then, voice low, Rem says, “You’re welcome.” He points to the room behind me. “You should shower. Get the soot off. Our bags will be up in a minute. I’ll set out some clean clothes for you when they do.”
“Rem, wait?—”
“I’ll be back, Lena. Don’t worry. Your monster will keep you safe.” With that, he turns and leaves me watching his back as he disappears down the hall.
Cazzo!I mentally curse, almost laughing at the fact I do it in Italian. Look at how fast my husband has worn off on me. Our honeymoon—if that’s what we’re calling it— has gotten off to a shit start and it’s entirely my fault.
Running after Rem doesn’t seem like the right call, not when he’s this pissed off. My apology might go further if I’m not covered in filth.
