His mouth moves hungry, desperate, angry. He kisses me like he's trying to prove something. Like he's punishing both of us for wanting this. His other hand finds my waist and drags me closer.
The wheelchair makes it awkward. My knees bump against the footrests. I have to bend at a strange angle to reach him. But I don't care. I don't care about any of it because Bruno Sartori is kissing me like I'm the only thing keeping him alive.
His lips leave my mouth and trail down my jaw. My neck. I gasp when his teeth graze the sensitive skin below my ear. His grip on my hair tightens, tilting my head back to give him better access.
"Bruno—"
He doesn't let me finish. His mouth finds mine again, swallowing whatever I was going to say. I grab his shoulders for balance, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt. He's so much stronger than I expected.
I like this.
The thought surfaces through the haze of sensation. I like the way he holds me. I like the desperation in his kiss.
When he finally stops, we're both breathing hard. He doesn't pull away. Instead, he presses his forehead against mine. His eyes stay closed. His hand remains tangled in my hair, though his grip has loosened.
I can feel his breath on my lips. Warm. Unsteady.
"You don't deserve this," he says.
The words are quiet. Almost gentle.
I don't move. "What?"
"This." His jaw works. "Me. This arrangement. Any of it."
"Bruno—"
"Once I get the title," he continues, his voice hardening, "I'll let you leave. You can have your own life. Go back to school. Open your bakery. Whatever you want."
He says it like he's offering me a gift. Like he's being noble.
I pull back.
His hand falls from my hair. His eyes open.
I step away from the wheelchair. One step. Then another. Creating distance between us.
"Antonella—"
"You'll let me leave." I repeat his words back to him. They taste bitter on my tongue.
"Yes." He frowns like he doesn't understand why I'm not grateful. "You'll be free. You can?—"
"I wanted that kiss."
The words come out sharper than I intended. Bruno's mouth snaps shut.
"I wanted it," I say again. "I thought you wanted it too."
His expression shutters. The walls slam back into place so fast I almost get whiplash. "It doesn't matter what I want."
"It matters to me."
"It shouldn't." His hands grip the armrests again. White-knuckled. "This marriage is a transaction. You're here because your father gambled away your future and my family needed proof that I'm stable enough to lead. That's all this is."
"Is it?"
"Yes."
