“I suggest you get that hand away from my wife, unless you want it gone. Then you’ll really be in a conundrum,” Mikhail says.
I look up at him, at that powerful jaw and the shadows from the chandeliers that enhance his sharp edges, my body flushing with a rush of heat and annoyance. Of course, he’s only here when he wants to mark his territory.
“I was speaking to her,” Cesare says, his voice growing somber.
My husband offers a cold smile. “You’re speaking to me now. What can I do for you?”
I knit my brows, confused. Is he…jealous? Of Cesare? No, that can’t be it. I get he doesn’t want me to sleep with other people, but who I talk to shouldn’t matter to him. He made that abundantly clear when he suggested we live separately after the wedding. Still, I hate that something in me steadies at his public claim, like my body knows who it belongs to already.
The men stare each other down for a few seconds. I don’t fail to notice the many eyes now watching us from all around the room. All they need is one insignificant opportunity to spill blood, and the whole event will turn into a massacre. Cesare knows it, it seems, because he’s the first to look at me.
“Call me anytime you need, Cecilia. I mean it.”
“She won’t be doing that, but thanks for the suggestion,” my husband says.
My nostrils flare. “Yes, I will. Thank you again, Cesare.”
My friend nods, his gaze lingering for a moment longer, as if he’s not sure if he’ll ever get to see me again. I don’t allow myselfto imagine that reality as he eventually heads back to the Italian side of the reception.
I shake my head in disbelief. “You’re insufferable. He was simply asking me for a dance. I don’t get to speak to anyone I know now?”
A subtle grin graces his face, his arm sliding from my waist to my hand before pulling me into his chest. Butterflies come to life in my belly, a trembling breath escaping me.
God, that smoky scent emanating from his neck…
“Having fun?” he asks as he slowly spins us in place.
“I was,” I lie, my voice a bit sour, pretending I wasn’t bothered by his absence. “Before you came in and ruined it.”
“You can’t possibly be enjoying this shitshow.”
“Is that why you were gone? Because it’s boring you?”
“Ah. So you noticed.”
His arm extends above me, and I spin, my dress swaying around me as I take a break from his intense gaze before meeting it again.
“Don’t flatter yourself. I simply noticed the peace and quiet in your absence,” I say.
“I was working on where to take you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you out of here.”
I blink. “And go where? We can’t leave our own wedding. Everyone is?—”
“—a fucking bore.” He groans. “This isn’t our party. It’s a business meeting at scale. Let them have at it while we go enjoy ourselves somewhere else. What do you say?”
“I…”
I look around, taking in the familiar scenery—the pensive glances, the disappointed faces of the people I seem to have failed—and I realize Mikhail is right. I don’t want to be here any more than he does.
Pulse ramping up, I look up at him and roll my eyes with an unwanted smile.
“Fine. But only because I could use some air?—”
My husband stops spinning us, but he doesn’t let go of my hand. Satisfaction thrums in his eyes, and when he drags me toward the exit, I hurry after him, grabbing the side of my dress so I don’t stumble on the hem. We glide behind the tables, bumping into a scary-looking Italian who curls his upper lip in annoyance, showing a flash of sharp canines, as if we insulted his entire lineage by merely existing.
