Antonio raises an eyebrow. "Since when do you care?"
"Gemma is my wife. She will not be paraded around because you want to make sure she can produce. She's twenty-five for fuck's sake. There's nothing wrong with her."
Antonio looks at me, a gleam of interest in his eye.
"Protective." He says it like he's tasting the word. "Interesting."
"Is there a point to this?"
"Just that you should be careful. Attachment can be dangerous in our world."
"I'm not attached. I'm practical. Women are only fertile six days a month. This is a timing issue. That is all."
"If you say so." He stands. "But Saint? Whatever this is with her... don't lose sight of what's important. The succession of this family. Everything else is secondary."
He leaves without another word, and I sit back down, staring at the blueprints without seeing them.
Attachment.
Is that what this is?
I run through the evidence:
I think about her constantly. I look forward to our planning sessions. I want to fuck her multiple times a day. I care what she thinks. I get angry when she's upset. I just threatened my uncle for suggesting someone examine her.
Fuck.
I might be attached.
Who wouldn't be? Her pussy is like gold, and her mind would be a terrible thing to waste.
I'm a psychopath, but I know biology. Most couples take months to conceive. Just because Sera Nero is apparently a walking fertility statue doesn't mean Gemma is the same.
Fuck, Gemma. She's pissed, which means no sex. No help. Back to the cold shoulder.
I need to fix this. The thing with her period. The argument.
I need her sharp, which means I need to fix it.
And she needs to get over her delicately hurt feelings.
I leave my office, head to our bedroom. It's late—past midnight. She might be asleep.
The room is dark when I enter. I can make out her shape under the covers, facing away from me.
"I know you're awake," I say.
She doesn't respond.
I undress, climb into bed. Instead of keeping to my side like I usually do, I move closer. Wrap an arm around her waist. Pull her back against my chest.
She stiffens. "What are you doing?"
"Sleeping."
"You never—we don't?—"
"Well, we are now."
