Something flickers in his eyes—disappointment, maybe. "No, but it may be more fun."
His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in the updo that took two hours to perfect. He pulls, not quite rough but firm enough to tilt my head back, exposing my throat. A predator's move. A dominance display.
I force myself to stay still. There’s power in coldness—Bianca taught me that.
"Let's get this over with," he says, and kisses me.
It isn't gentle. Isn't romantic. His mouth is hot and demanding, tasting of whiskey and something darker. His free hand finds my waist, pulling me against him as his tongue invades my mouth. I stand there, frozen, letting it happen.Letting him take what he wants because what's the point of fighting?
He pulls back, frowning. "You're not even trying."
"You said it wouldn't matter."
"I said fighting wouldn't matter. Being present might be nice." His hand tightens in my hair. "Or is this how it's going to be? You playing corpse while I do all the work?"
Heat floods my cheeks, shame and anger mixing into something toxic. "What do you want from me?"
"Participation. Enthusiasm. Pretend you want this, at least."
"But I don't."
And I don't have the energy to pretend otherwise. I’ve done enough.
He laughs, sharp and humorless. "Yeah, princess. I got that. I’m not keen on it either. But we're doing this anyway, so you might as well make it easier on both of us. Pleasurable, even."
"Why do you even care?" I ask.
"No one wants to fuck a cold fish, and I need to be hard to get you pregnant."
I gag in my mouth.
He releases me and steps back, pulling his shirt over his head in one smooth motion. I've seen him shirtless at the beach house during our engagement period, one of the many forced "get to know each other" sessions Antonio insisted on. But seeing him now, in our bedroom, knowing what's about to happen...I shiver. In fear, desire, desperation—who knows.
Tattoos cover his chest and abs, intricate designs that probably mean something to him. To me, they just look like war paint. Like he's marked himself as dangerous.
"Your turn," he says, gesturing to my wedding dress.
My fingers find the tiny buttons running down the back, dozens of them, painstakingly fastened by Sera's maid this morning. This afternoon. A lifetime ago.
"Need help?" He doesn't wait for an answer, just turns me around and starts unfastening them with surprising dexterity. "How many fucking buttons does one dress need?"
"It's a wedding dress."
"It's a virginity fort."
Despite everything, I almost laugh. Almost. "I'm hardly a virgin," I mutter. Thank God I'd had sex before. I'd disclosed that during the engagement, hoping Saint would want a pure bride. He'd laughed, said something crude, and made it clear he didn't care.
From what he's said, I don't think he would have had a choice if he did. Antonio, his uncle, my mother, and then my brother were the arbiters of our fate.
They wanted us married, so here we were.
"You know what the fuck I mean." He tugs at the buttons, and I hear them pop.
The dress loosens around me, and I clutch it to my chest as the fabric gapes. Saint's fingers trace down my bare spine. Not sexual. Exploratory. Like he's cataloging merchandise.
"You can drop it," he says. "I'm going to see everything in about thirty seconds anyway."
My hands tighten on the silk. This is it. The point of no return.
