“You don’t have to say yes, you know,” he says suddenly, the words rushing from him with a note of exasperation.
Stunned at his sudden outburst, I stare at him in genuine confusion. “I’m pretty sure our families have already come to an agreement,” I point out when I finally find my voice again.
“They have,” he says, his tone darkening. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t walk away.”
My heart flutters uncomfortably as a flicker of self-doubt settles inside my chest, and I trap my lower lip between my teeth as my anxiety spikes.Is he saying that because he doesn’t want to go through with the wedding? Have I failed to capture Sandro’s interest so thoroughly already?
“Is that what you want? To walk away?” My breath remains trapped in my throat as I wait for his answer, praying he won’t call the whole thing off right here and now.
And for one heart-stopping moment, I’m sure he will.
“My brother needs your family’s support if we’re going to win the war that’s coming,” he says flatly, breaking eye contact with me.
My heart sinks like a rock, and though I know I shouldn’t be trying to talk him out of this, I can’t seem to stop the words that fall from my mouth. “That doesn’t mean you have to marry someone you don’t want to marry,” I say softly, drawing his hematite gaze once more.
He gives a humorless laugh that somehow manages to send a thrill through me and at the same time turns my blood cold.
“You don’t know me,” he says.
And yet, I desperately find myself wanting to. “Then tell me,” I practically whisper.
He looks almost shocked by my response, and the silence that stretches between us is charged with tension. When he finally decides to break it, his words slice straight to my heart.
“I’m not a good man,” he states darkly.
Heart hammering an unsteady beat, I tilt my head as I consider the meaning beneath his words.Is that a fact, or something he’s been told? And how does one determine what makes a good man?I’m suddenly dying to know what Sandro’s done to brand himself unworthy of the title.
“Who decides that?” I ask.
“I do,” he practically growls, his broad, muscular shoulders tensing as a thunderstorm builds behind his eyes.
For the breadth of a moment, I can almost taste the danger that surrounds Sandro, the dark, near-palpable fury and violence that roll off him in waves.
But his temper seems to flow right past me, cresting harmlessly before washing away, and not an ounce seems focused in my direction.
He might be a dangerous man—from the looks of it, he’s probably far more lethal than any of my brothers combined—but for some reason, I don’t get the feeling that he’s a threat to me. I feel… safe, even in the wake of his tumultuous emotions.
And a man who can be filled with such fury and yet leave me feeling so perfectly safe can’t be as bad as he thinks.
“Maybe you’re wrong,” I breathe softly.
The words hang between us, light and yet somehow heavy all at once as Sandro looks at me as if he’s only now seeing me for the first time.
But before he can say anything, my mother calls from the garden door. “Evi, dinner’s ready. Why don’t you show our guest to the powder room so he can… freshen up?”
I cringe at the not-so-subtle hint that my parents find Sandro’s appearance less than acceptable for our meal, but he doesn’t seem to notice—or perhaps he just doesn’t care. Instead, he gestures for me to lead the way, and I turn without a word.
It wouldn’t take a genius to realize Sandro’s not much of a talker as we sit at the dinner table fifteen minutes later.
Settled in the chair between me and his twin, Rafael, Sandro keeps his fork in his left hand, his steak knife in his right as he single-mindedly devours his plate of food, allowing my brothers across the table and my parents at either end to carry the conversation with Rafael alone.
They cover menial topics like the weather, sports teams, and market trends, carefully avoiding the main reason the Chiaroscuro twins are here tonight.
A tension vibrates in the air as my parents put on their most gracious airs to impress our guests despite their clear distaste for the man I’m supposed to marry.
I, on the other hand, can’t help sneaking peeks of my husband-to-be, fascinated by the way he chooses to disregard proper dinner etiquette.
The moment he had me safely tucked against the table, he turned his attention to the food.
