I fall completely into this fantasy.
I laugh at Cristian's whispered jokes about extravagant flower arrangements, lean into his touch when he guides me through narrow paths between tropical plants, and blush genuinely when the florist comments on how attentive he is.
"He never takes his eyes off you," she says with a knowing smile.
And it's true, although what she doesn’t know is he’s paid to watch me. He’s my bodyguard.
But I go along with our charade. "You'd think after all this time, he'd grow tired of looking.”
“Not possible.” Cristian’s intense gaze holds mine, and I swear I feel his words hold a truth, not this game we’re playing.
I know this moment is fleeting.
Soon, we'll leave this paradise of flowers, drive to Maksim's estate, and step back into our proper roles. Guard and pawn.
Yet I can't bring myself to regret this dangerous game. If these stolen moments are all we'll ever have, I'll hoard them like treasures.
I’ll keep this memory and conjure it up when my days are dark, when I need an escape, if only in my mind.
10
CRISTIAN
I watch Valentina twirling among the flowers, her face alight with joy.
She's captivating, and I'm a dead man walking for allowing this fantasy to continue.
What the fuck am I doing?
I'm a trusted soldier, handpicked by Don Dante to protect his sister, and here I am, playing her lovestruck fiancé.
If anyone from our world saw us right now, her hand in mine, I'd be executed before sundown.
And Valentina?
God knows what punishment Alessandro would devise for her betrayal.
Or worse, Maksim.
I should end this charade immediately.
But when she looks up at me with those storm-gray eyes, I’m utterly powerless.
"These would be beautiful for the boutonnieres, don't you think?" She holds up a sprig of a white flower, her fingers brushing mine as she places it in my palm.
"Perfect," I manage.
I was assigned to keep her safe, ensure that no harm comes to her before she's handed off to Maksim as a peace offering.
Yet somewhere between her reckless flirtations and vulnerable confessions, my protective instinct transformed into something beyond duty. Something possessive.
The thought of Maksim touching her makes my trigger finger itch.
The idea of Valentina suffering that man’s sadistic ways makes me want to burn his entire world to ash.
She stands near a trellis of climbing roses, examining them with delicate fingers.
The same fingers that clutched my shoulders in the car, that trembled under my touch. My body hardens at the memory.
