Rich and red and slightly sweet—my favorite, the exact kind Seamus always orders for special occasions, the kind I have been drinking since I was sixteen and he decided I was old enough to appreciate good wine.
I lower the glass slowly, staring at it like it might have answers.
"What is going on?" I ask, looking at Dante because he seems like the leader of this little operation.
Gabriel is the one who answers. "Last week we came on kind of strong. So let us propose this better."
I turn to look at him, waiting, trying to ignore the way my heart is beating too fast.
"We like to share," Gabriel says, and his voice is calm, measured, like he is explaining something perfectly reasonable and not absolutely insane. "Because we are busy men, and we like to know our woman is being taken care of."
"And punished accordingly," Luca adds, and the smile on his face is absolutely wicked and does things to my pulse that I am going to pretend did not happen.
My pulse jumps. Traitor.
"We will not pressure you to do anything," Gabriel continues, and there is something almost gentle in his voice now. "But the offer stands. You can think about it. Take your time."
I look at Dante, searching his face for—I do not even know what. Some sign that this is a joke, maybe. Some indication that they are testing me or playing some elaborate game.
"And what if I just want to be your wife?" I ask quietly, hating how small my voice sounds.
Dante's expression softens slightly, just a fraction. "Then that is fine."
"Just yours," I clarify, needing to hear him say it. "Not theirs."
"If that is what you want, then yes. Just mine."
I stare at him, trying to figure out if he means it, if he would really let me choose, if this is some kind of trap I am too stupid or too desperate to see.
But his eyes are steady, honest, and I find myself almost believing him.
Almost.
"Fine," I say, turning back to my plate with more force than necessary. "Then I choose you. Just you."
"Noted," Dante says, and I cannot tell if he sounds disappointed or relieved or completely indifferent.
I pick up my fork and take a bite of the shepherd's pie, and it is exactly as good as it smells, exactly as good as I remember, and for just a moment I let myself enjoy the taste of something familiar in this strange, overwhelming place that has become my prison.
Then my brain catches up with my mouth, and I realize what I just said.
What I just agreed to.
I just told Dante I want to be his wife. His alone.
Panic flutters in my chest like a trapped bird, but I shove it down, force myself to take another bite, to act like this is fine, like I am in control.
I am not in control.
I have not been in control since the moment I walked down that aisle in Erin's place.
"So," I say, because apparently I cannot leave well enough alone, "do I get my door back now?"
"No," Dante says without even looking at me.
"Why not?"
"Because you have not earned it yet."
