“Why aren’t you wearing your new clothes?” I finally ask, my voice deceptively calm as I take another sip of my wine.
Alina’s fork pauses midway to her mouth, and those blue eyes flick up to meet mine briefly before darting away again. “I don’t need them,” she says softly, setting her fork down.
“That wasn’t my question,” I snap, setting my glass down with controlled precision. “Do they not fit?”
She shifts in her chair, a small movement that draws my attention to the way her shirt hugs her breasts. “They fit,” she admits reluctantly.
“Then why,” I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table, “are you still wearing the dirty clothes you arrived in?”
Her fingers twist in her lap, and I imagine them twisting in my sheets, pinned beneath mine. The thought sends heat coursing through me, and I clench my jaw against it.
Several moments pass before she straightens her spine and lifts her chin. “They’re not dirty,” she informs me, like that’s the poignant part.
An incredulous laugh leaves me. “Yes, I forgot handwashing your clothes in the bathroom sink is the epitome of cleanliness,” I deadpan.
I know Susan’s washing the clothes for her. But bringing that up ruins my point, so I leave it out of the conversation.
Her cheeks grow red, and splotches appear on her neck as well. “I’m not dirty if that’s what you’re insinuating,” she hisses. Blowing some of her red strands out of her face, she pins me with her gaze. “I don’t want to wear the new clothes.”
“Why not?” I ask, genuinely confused by that statement. “Do you prefer a different brand?”
Huffing, she throws her arms up in the air in pure exasperation. “You kidnapped me—”
“I collected you,” I correct.
“Fine,” she snips. “You collected me because my mom borrowed money from you. And then you basically forced me to marry you—”
“You think I forced you?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. “I asked you, and you said yes. That’s called a choice.”
“It wasn’t much of a choice, was it?” she retorts, rolling her shoulders back. “You dangled my dreams in front of me, Raffaele.”
I shrug. “So? That’s called motivation. Tell me, how’s that different from most choices in life?”
“What do you mean?”
“Most people work to earn money, correct?”
“Yes, but—”
“If someone has a job that comes with lucrative bonuses, are they then being forced to go above and beyond? Or incentivized?”
“That’s not—”
I interrupt her again, my hand coming down hard on the table. “People can decide to do the bare minimum and still get paid. It’s their choice whether they want to earn a bonus or not. Just like they could take the money instead of paying rent. Another choice.”
“You’re twisting everything,” she snips. “If people don’t pay rent, they’ll lose their homes.”
I give her a stiff smile. “Exactly. That’s called a consequence, Alina. But consequences come with the choices we make. Stop playing the victim by deluding yourself into thinking you don’t have a choice just because you don’t like the options in front of you.”
Scoffing, she rolls her eyes, and the gesture set my blood on fire as my hand tightens around the stem of the wineglass. Her defiance makes me want to press her against the nearest wall and show her exactly who’s in control here.
“Fine.” The slight tremble in her voice is the only sign she’s not as confident as she tries to look. “Everything about my life ismychoice. And I choose not to wear the clothes.”
I’m impressed she’s talking back and standing up for herself with me. When I saw her at Sophia’s funeral, she looked so frail and weak. Two things she hasn’t been since I brought her home.
Alina Brewer might not fight me with her fists or sassy comebacks. In fact, she’s pretty fucking soft and gentle. Still, fight me she does—in her own way. Too bad for her, this is not the night to push me.
I grip the edge of the table hard enough to make the wood creak. “Don’t challenge me,” I growl. “I owneveryinch of you, Alina.”
