That girl was practically a goddess from ancient Rome. I was just another mortal caught by the divine’s enchantment.
I watched as she looked toward a group of approaching women with some kids. The pen she’d been using remainedpoised over the journal. The expectant look on her face changed into a soft smile.
She’s writing a lot.
That truth slammed into me with the force of a gale. So consumed with discovering why she was here,whoshe was meeting, I hadn’t considered what she was writing.
The urge to know crept under my skin. It slithered and crawled, irritating the hell out of the scars.
Her head snapped down, and she scanned the park. I held very still, pressing closer to the tree. That honeyed gaze swept over my hiding place, but she didn’t see me.
No, she might sense my presence, but she didn’t abandon her rendezvous. It must be important.
Important enough to leave the safety of her home, risk physical danger. Anyone with a vendetta could have followed her. And yet she was here.
From this angle, I could see her profile. That full bottom lip slid between her teeth. A wistful, hungry look spread over her face.
What if she has a lover?
Fuck. Me.
Why hadn’t that thought occurred to me before now? But of course it made sense! She would play the don’s twisted games, pretend to be a willing participant, but secretly, like every other silly young doe, she would want a buck of her own.
The urge to burn down the park consumed me. I would turn the emerald landscape into blackened char. Of course my little bride longed for another man. She probably wrote her name with his last name, putting dainty wee hearts around the words.
Not going to fucking happen.
It was possible she played the part of willing wife so that she could get close to me. Sink her talons in my chest and rip out my bleeding heart. Did she make some arrangement with the don togo along with it? To act the part of spy in exchange for freedom to marry her lover? Or was she playing her own cards in this game? An escape, a midnight journey to a happily-ever-after?
I ground my fist into the tree, forcing bits of bark to crumble under the pressure. The desperate, greedy gulps of air did little to settle the destructive energy coursing through me.
Gabriella dropped her gaze. She began to write, but her attention wasn’t on the page. She was waiting.
For him.
Ichor choked my lungs.
Where is he?
Has he touched you?
Are you plotting my death?
I wanted to cross the distance, wrap my fingers around her slim little throat, and claim her. Right here. Right now. Fuck the truth from her in the bright light of day.
A perambulator passed. The daft cow gabbed into her Bluetooth, bitchin’ about her husband’s credit card limit.
I stilled, narrowing my gaze. Gabriella’s pen continued to move, but the motion was absent and without purpose. Her head was bowed, but her gaze tracked the pram. She stared hard, eyes fixed on the wee critter inside. A strangled growl of frustration vibrated up my throat. I couldn’t fucking see from this distance. Couldn’t read what was written in those whiskey orbs.
When the pretentious housewife rounded the bend, Gabriella dropped her pen. That pretty face fell into her hands. For a split second, she seemed to freeze. I felt her lungs take a long drink of air. She lifted her head, raked her fingers back through her hair, and tossed the gorgeous lot to the side.
The urge to wrap it around my fist sent a throbbing ache straight to my dick.
She began to write furiously in that damned journal again. This whole setting felt like a ritual. She’d been here before. This had happened more than once.
Enough.
I wasn’t going to sit around like some moon-eyed eejit and let her wallow in whatever tragic love story consumed her. I was a character in this plot—the villain. And I was going to play my hand.
