The place is dark and quiet except for the faint hum of the electronics. The pizza boxes are stacked neatly where Cecilia left them, along with the soft light in the hallway. I step toward it,the main bedroom door slightly ajar, allowing the shadows to stretch inside.
And there she is.
Curled up on the side in my bed, wearing my shirt, Cecilia is sound asleep—vulnerable, small, frowning under whatever nightmare seizes her mind again.
A pained moan escapes her, signaling her dreams are probably ramping up. My cock shouldn’t harden at the sound of it, and I shouldn’t imagine her in that white dress, spreading her perfect legs for me., but here we fucking are.
If I were a good man, I’d slide under those sheets and wrap my arms around her frail body, tell her she’s safe and lull her back to a peaceful sleep. Too bad I’m a heartless bastard who only thinks about the warm pussy she’s hiding underneath the covers.
Another complication I haven’t anticipated.
I mean, sure, I’ve thought about fucking Cecilia before, but I always brushed it off as cravinganypussy after spending so much time down in that basement. Now, I’m beginning to suspect that’s not the reason. Why else have I not fucked anyone since stalking her?
Her chest dips and rises under the charcoal sheets, hair splayed out across the pillow. I’ve never had a woman sleep in this bed, the image unfamiliar but oddly satisfying. Still, I can’t let myself touch her, which drives me fucking crazy. Because I want to.God, I want to. I know she’d feel incredible. But what then? Things would get too messy between us. She’d distract me to an insurmountable amount.
Ever since I made contact with Cecilia, my head’s been all over the place, in fact. My thoughts constantly revolve around her. Even now, I’m asking myself things I shouldn’t be concerned about when I have shit to deal with that’s so much more important.
First of all, why is Lucia Donatello trying to manipulate her? Telling her she’s not good enough to perform on stage when she’s fucking brilliant, convincing her to wear that ugly-ass dress when it was clear she hated it from the get-go?
My soon-to-be wife might be too close to that woman to see her for what she is, but I’m not. I know people like her—sly, overly sweet, performative. I’m not going to sit by and let her dig her claws into Cecilia’s mind any longer.
Secondly, why are Antonio’s men disappearing with clues that point to it being an inside job? If whoever is responsible is working their way up to the top, maybe Cecilia is also in their line of sight. I can’t allow that—I won’t. She’s mine now, and I fucking dare anyone to try to get to her.
The one question that trumps all of them, however, is…what the hell happens when this angel of a woman remembers there’s a devil lurking beneath those innocent eyes?
20
Cecilia
Imade a mistake.
When Ms. Donatello came to the penthouse this morning to find Niko delivering my new dress, I could tell I screwed up.
I should have never let Mikhail take me to that bridal store yesterday. I should have worn the other dress, the one my mentor carefully selected out of dozens, even if I hated it. Because now, Ms. Donatello barely even looks at me as she helps coordinate the wedding logistics from the apartment.
“Are you okay?” Victoria asks. Somehow, out of the two of them, she seems to be the only one who still pays attention to my fickle emotions. Even if I rejected her friendship. Even if I’ve never even thanked her for all her help.
“I don’t know,” I say from my seat in front of a mirror, smoothing the dress over my thighs. “I’m just confused, I guess.”
The wedding was supposed to be tomorrow. When Mikhail told me the plans had changed, he skipped over the details and disappeared once again. Classic him.
Victoria brings her hand over to mine, squeezing it lightly. “It’s going to be alright. When I got married to Wolf, I didn’t have anyone in my corner. It was an arranged marriage, like yours, and he wassuchan asshole.” She huffs out a bittersweet laugh. “If it’s any consolation, that will not happen to you. Because you’ve got me.I’min your corner, even if you’re not ready to accept me just yet—or ever. I’ll do my damndest to make sure Mikhail doesn’t mistreat you.”
I smile. “Thank you. When this is all over, I think…if you aren’t too busy, I’d like for us to talk and?—”
“We’ll talk. Of course we will.” She beams. “And I’m sorry I haven’t been much of a help with organizing this wedding. It didn’t feel right supporting it, given that you didn’t have much choice in the matter. But in the end, it’s still happening, so I might as well have been there for you…”
“It’s okay. I’m glad you weren’t, actually. I’d rather we bond over something we want to do together. Besides, Mikhail kind of took care of everything.”
“Not everything,” Ms. Donatello bickers as she hangs up a call. “The rings. He forgot the rings! Not to mention the odd seating arrangement at the venue. And…the impromptu dress change.”
I tense up at the last sentence. I can see the dangerous signs of my mentor’s rage flickering in those sharp, amber eyes. I can see it, and yet, in between chastising myself for what I did, a tendril of anger also begins to bloom somewhere deep. Why can’t she give me this small happiness? It’s just a dress. A dress I happen to like—one Mikhail seemed to like as well. Heat coils around my body, squeezing tight at the memory.
“Hair and makeup. Quickly," Ms. Donatello orders in Italian, clapping her hands in urgency. Two stylists take their posts. “I want her hair up in a bun. Neat and perfect,” she adds.
Immediately, my hair is pulled back from behind as a comb goes through it, rough and fast. My pulse picks up, and I find myself twisting to face the stylist.
“Wait,” I say, my voice clear. Stable.
