Noah finally got his wish to dress like Dante. The tailor who made his tuxedo told me his three-piece matches Dante’s exactly. The only difference is that Noah wears a bowtie whereas Dante has opted for a tie.
Noah gapes at the diamonds, roses, and lace. “You look like a princess.”
I pinch his cheek. “You look like a prince.”
“She does,” Dante says in his deep voice from the door.
I straighten to see my groom walk into the room in his black tuxedo and silver-gray waistcoat with matching tie.
He moves a heated, possessive gaze over me. “Then again, you were always the princess you were born to be.”
Jazz rushes over and punches his bicep. “What are you doing in here?”
Dante may have chosen the dress, but he hasn’t seen me in it yet.
I swallow away the dryness of my throat as our gazes lock. He tamed his hair and brushed it back. A few stray curls fall in their usual messiness over his forehead and ears. The look in his amber eyes is more intense than ever, piercing deep and hooking into my soul. It’s like being burned alive, the flames of those golden eyes devouring me greedily. The ink that peeks from the collar of his pristine white shirt and that extends from beneath his cuffs to his hands reminds me that, despite the gentlemanly suit and tie, he’s a dangerous man who’s written a lifetime’s worth of painful history on his body. My family is responsible for that pain, which, no matter what he says, he’s also punishing me for.
He addresses Jazz without breaking our eye contact. “I need a moment alone with my bride.”
His low, authoritative tone is enough to cut short any objections Jazz was about to utter. She knows when it’s a bad idea to argue with him. She takes Noah’s hand and scurries from the room, saying something about having to pee before we go.
I stand frozen in place, rendered helpless like a prey facing a predator as he slowly crosses the floor and stops short of me. A whiff of his familiar aftershave reaches my nose when he takes my hand.
My fingers tingle where he holds them in his grasp. Zaps of electricity shoot up my arm.
He reaches inside his pocket and takes out a ring with a big oval diamond that he slides over my finger. “I owe you an engagement ring.”
The fit is perfect. I don’t even know when or how he measured my finger. I stare at the flawless, perfectly cut stone that sparkles on my finger. Besides being monstrously big, it’s elegant and timeless.
Squeezing my fingers, he lifts my hand to his lips and brushes a kiss over my knuckles. “I always knew you’d make a beautiful bride.”
The words hit home, as I’m sure he intended. Not the part about a bride looking beautiful for her groom but that he always knew, which insinuates he always wanted to propose to me. Well, propose isn’t the right word. It’s just a business transaction to him, like everything else in his life.
I pull my hand free. “I want something.”
He arches a brow. “You don’t usually ask me for anything. I thought that was beneath you.”
Lifting my chin, I ignore my pride. He’s right. I don’t like to ask him for anything, but for this, I’ll swallow my dignity. “As we’re getting married, I want this.”
“Name it.”
“I want my own bedroom.”
His jaw locks. Any emotion that might’ve shown on his face is gone. “Not going to happen.”
“Why not?” As a married woman, demanding my own room is my right. My mother had hers. Most mafia wives do. “What’s the problem?”
Taking my hand, he pulls me to the door. “I’m not going to stop sleeping with you.”
Lifting my skirt in the same hand I’m carrying the bouquet, I try to keep up in my diamanté-studded heels. “That’s not the point of having separate rooms.”
“Not going to happen,” he says again, leading me to the top of the stairs.
“I need privacy.”
“You can have that within limits.” He steers me down the stairs. “But I won’t allow you to hide from me.”
“That’s not?—”
