"I know you're scared," I said softly. "But I know what I'm doing."
"Why do you keep saying that?" she asked. "Like you've done this before."
"I have." I looked down at her, and the jealousy burning in her eyes sent a thrill through my chest. "Many times. I've had more virgins than you can count. None of them were my devoted, obedient little wife."
I expected her to be angry. She wasn't. She looked so hurt, tears shining in her eyes. "You make me hate you so much."
"Beg, bellissima," I insisted. “Show me you love me.”
The words slipped out before I could stop them. The second they landed between us, Chiara went completely still beneath me. Not shy. Not flustered. Shattered. I felt it happen in real time.
The tension in her body snapped so violently it was almost physical, like a wire pulled too tight finally giving out. Her blue eyes widened, staring up at me with something dangerously close to panic. And then she shoved me. Hard.
I barely moved, but she scrambled out from beneath me anyway, clutching the sheet against her chest so fast she tangled herself in it. “Chiara…”
“No.” Her voice cracked apart. “No. Don’t say that. You don’t get to say that.”
I frowned, pushing upright on the mattress. “Say what?”
“That.” She shook her head violently, backing away from the bed like I’d struck her. “That word.”
Understanding didn’t come. Irritation did. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Chiara.”
But her face only crumpled harder. That confused me even more. Tears flooded her eyes before she could stop them, humiliation burning bright across her cheeks. She looked furious with herself for reacting at all.
“Baby.”
“Don’t.” She pointed at me with trembling fingers. “Don’t talk to me right now.”
Then she turned and ran. For half a second, I genuinely didn’t process what was happening. I just watched her disappear into the bathroom adjoining the bedroom, blonde hair wild around her shoulders, bare feet slipping against the marble floor.
The door slammed. A lock clicked after. Silence. I stared at the closed door in disbelief.
“What the fuck?” I muttered. Inside, I heard uneven breathing. Then nothing. I swung my legs off the bed slowly, annoyance already sharpening into anger. Not because she ran. Because I didn’t understand why. “Open the door.”
“No.” Her voice sounded muffled. Broken. My jaw tightened.
“You’re hiding in the bathroom now?” I demanded.
“Yes!” The answer came too quickly, almost hysterically. I rubbed a hand over my face, already losing patience.
“For what reason?” I demanded. “Because I told you to beg?”
“No!”
“Then what?” I asked. Silence. I walked toward the bathroom slowly, stopping just outside the door. Cool marble pressedbeneath my bare feet while my frustration coiled tighter and tighter in my chest. “Chiara.”
Nothing. “Open the fucking door.”
“I hate you,” she choked out from the other side. “I hate you so much.”
I leaned one hand against the wood. “That’s not how we solve this, baby.”
Another silence stretched. Then I heard it. Crying. Not the angry tears she threw at me before. Not dramatic sobbing. Quiet crying. The kind someone tried desperately to hide.
Confusion hit me first. Then something uglier. Guilt. I hated that feeling so fucking much.
“Why are you crying?” I demanded, harsher than intended.
