They keep drifting to her.
The dress is simple. White silk that skims her body without clinging. Modest neckline. Long sleeves. Nothing provocative about it.
Except.
Except the way the fabric moves when she breathes. The way it hints at curves underneath—the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. She's not trying to be seductive. The dress wasn't designed for that. But her body...
Fuck.
Her body could make an angel turn to devil.
I shift in my chair. Subtle. Just enough to adjust.
My legs might not work. Not completely. Not yet. But everything else functions just fine. And right now, my cock is straining against my pants like I'm a goddamn teenager who's never seen a woman before.
Two years.
Two years since I've let anyone touch me. Since I've wanted anyone to touch me. The nurses who help me in and out of bed—I tolerate them because I have no choice. But women? Sex? I shut that door the moment I woke up and realized what I'd become.
I release myself when I need to. Quick. Efficient. No fantasy. No longing. Just a physical function, like eating or breathing.
But now.
Now I'm staring at the curve of my future wife's neck, visible just above the collar of her dress, and my mind is going places it hasn't gone in years.
What does her skin taste like?
What sound would she make if I put my mouth there?
Would she arch into me or pull away?
Stop.
I force my gaze back to the priest. Force my hands to stay relaxed on the armrests.
She's trembling.
I notice it now. The slight shake in her shoulders. The way her fingers clutch the small bouquet of white roses like it's the only thing keeping her upright.
She's scared.
Of course she is. She just walked into a church expecting one thing and got something else entirely. She's standing in front of a man she's never met, about to bind herself to him for life, and she has no idea what kind of husband I'll be.
Does she think I'll hurt her?
Does she think I'll demand things from her? Use her? Take what I want because she has no power to stop me?
My jaw tightens.
She has no reason to be afraid. Not of that. Not of me.
I'm not going to touch her.
The thought settles in my chest like a stone. Cold. Final.
I made that decision before I ever saw her face. Before I knew she was blonde or beautiful or that her body would make my blood run hot for the first time in two years.
This marriage is a transaction. A test. Pietro's way of proving I can be stable. Responsible. Worthy of the position I was born for.
