As well as giving myself a reason to touch her.
Slowly, she picks up her knife and fork and starts cutting into the meat with jittery movements. I move my hand lower until I reach her knee, caressing it in slow, gentle circles.
“Cecilia,” Wolf says. She looks up at him, holding his gaze now, as if my touch is giving her strength. Or that’s how I choose to see it, at least. “I understand things turned out differently from the way you wanted.”
A small, barely audible scoff.
“But this is your home now, and I want you to know you’re safe here,” my brother continues.
“I am?” she asks. “Because you almost killed your own brother in this house not too long ago. If it wasn’t for your wife calling the doctor?—”
His jaw clenches. “What happens between me and Mikhail is none of your concern. He knew the consequences after what he did at your father’s estate. This is our world, and you’ll have to accept it. The sooner you do that, the better. But no one here wants to harm you—it wouldn’t be in their best interest to even try.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I’ll break every fucking bone in their body if they so much as look at you the wrong way,” I tell her. She turns to me, and her lips part, drawing my gaze there. My heartbeat picks up, heat coiling around my chest like poison ivy. Her thighs—does she realize she parted them? My cock twitches, and it’s an excruciating fucking effort to take my hand off her knee and pretend I’m no longer interested.
My body remains wired all the way through dinner, until, half an hour later, my soon-to-be wife excuses herself. When she gets up to leave, the floral scent of her long hair floats between us, and, like an invisible thread, she wraps a spell around me, pulling tighter the longer I breathe her into my lungs.
17
Cecilia
The door to my bedroom bursts open. “Morning, sunshine,” Mikhail jeers.
With a high-pitched scream, I jolt upright in bed, pick up the closest object I can get my hands on—a book—and hurl it at him. It misses his chest by a few inches, falling to the floor with a thud.
“Someone woke up in a cranky mood…”
“God! You scared me! We’ve been over this. Can’t you at least knock?”
Standing by the window in the morning light, he looks unfairly handsome, his hair a tousled mess that somehow works with the dark suit he’s wearing. The swelling and bruises on his face are mostly gone, and he seems ready for whatever else life will throw at him.
Clutching the sheets to my chest, I suddenly become aware of my morning face. What’s with him at this hour?
“Do I need to carry you again?” He sighs. “We’ve got a long day ahead, and I’d rather avoid all the traffic.”
My brows rise. “We?No, no.Wearen’t doing anything together. Now crawl back into whatever hole you climbed out of and leave me alone.”
He steps closer, hands in his pockets, his gaze lowering to whatever part of my body is still visible. “If that pretty nightgown is all you’re going to wear, fine by me. Just don’t act surprised when I start plucking the eyes of every man who sees you out on the streets.”
A dangerous thrill passes through me. “If anyone sees me, if anyonewantsme, maybe I’ll want them back. I’m sure you’ll be taking plenty of lovers yourself.”
Will I? The thought has never even crossed my mind. I always hoped I’d be like Ms. Donatello—no husband, no lover, just me, my piano, and maybe a dog. It sounded a thousand times better than being in this situation.
Mikhail’s jaw locks as he throws me a cold smile. “This—me—is all you’ll ever get, sweetheart. I fucking dare you to take any man to bed, and he’ll turn up dead the morning after. Now, what’s it gonna be? Are you getting up?”
His words make me frown, totally baffled. He’d kill my lovers? Why would he even care? But as his brow raises again in question, I sigh, deciding I don’t want him to carry me again. Or face the dreadful cold outside these walls without proper layers. So I drape my legs over the edge of the mattress, knowing I’ve lost this fight.
Keeping the sheets around my body, I trudge to the adjacent bathroom. When I move past him, his scent envelops me—sophisticated and hushed, and… his. Traitorous heat skitters through my body, flushing my cheeks, as the memory of him pinning me under him a few nights ago hits me like a sling.
For a second too long, our gazes meet, and it feels like a part of that memory is playing out in his mind too.
His mouth opens to say something, yet only silence comes out. A silence that stretches, and stretches, until eventually, his lips come back together in a restrained smile.
“I’ll be in the foyer,” he says. “Be there in ten.”
Later,when I’m bundled up in too many clothes to remember, I saunter downstairs like I’ve got all the time in the world. Instead of berating me about being late, Mikhail quirks a brow, looking me up and down.
