I pour myself a drink the moment I walk through the door, downing the first glass of whiskey in one swallow before refillingit. I’m still feeling unsettled, worried I’m not strong enough to resist the pull she has on me.
Could I still back out? The wedding is less than a week away. Invitations are sent, security arranged, alliances hanging in the balance.
If I called it off now, I'd look weak. Indecisive. The other families would smell blood in the water. Marco would take it as the ultimate insult, especially if he discovered I’d taken the one thing he finds of value in her. War would be inevitable.
And yet...
I close my eyes, seeing Isabella's face the moment I first entered her. That mixture of pain and wonder, vulnerability and strength. The way her body yielded to mine, trusting me despite everything.
Fuck. What if she's pregnant?
The glass nearly slips from my hand as the thought crashes through me. I hadn't used protection, hadn't even considered it in the heat of the moment. A child. My child, growing inside her at this very moment.
The possibility sends terror through me. A Dante heir with her eyes, her sharp mind.
I shake my head violently, dispelling the image. No. I will draw the line there. Still, I can't abandon Isabella, either. Not unless she gives me reason to.
I set the glass down, forcing myself to get it together. The wedding will proceed as planned. The alliance will stand. I'll be a husband in name, in public, in every way necessary to maintain appearances.
But I'll keep emotional distance. Remember who she is. A Vitale. Daughter of the man who would gladly put a bullet in my head if it meant taking my throne.
I need to compartmentalize, keep our physical relationship separate from my emotional walls. I can give her my body without surrendering my soul. I've done it countless times before.
I pour another drink, staring into the amber liquid feeling resolved. Seven days from now, she'll be my wife, but never mine to love. That's the line I cannot cross.
I finish my drink and head upstairs to my room.
I toss my jacket onto the chair and loosen my tie. My fingers brush something soft in my pocket. I pull out my handkerchief, stained with evidence of what we shared. The silk square bears the faint crimson mark of her innocence.
"Christ," I mutter, running my thumb over the fabric.
I should dispose of it. Burn it. This is evidence of my weakness.
Instead, I bring it to my face, inhaling deeply.
Her scent overwhelms me. The memories crash through my newly constructed walls. She’d been so fucking tight. She’d moved with me, against me in perfection, like God had made her for me.
My body responds immediately, hardening with a need so intense, it borders on pain.
"Fuck!" I hurl the handkerchief across the room, disgusted with my lack of control. It flutters to the floor like a white flag of surrender.
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to erase the images burned into my brain. This is a strategic business deal. Not a hunger that threatens to consume me from the inside out.
She's a Vitale. The daughter of a man who would cut my throat in my sleep if given half the chance.
And yet.
I drop my hands, staring at the discarded handkerchief. In that moment, clarity finally comes. I understand the true danger Isabella represents. It's not just the Vitale name or her family's ambitions.
It's her. The woman herself. The way she sees me. The way she makes me feel seen.
If I let her, Isabella could unmake me entirely. Leave me exposed, vulnerable.
I strip and get into bed. As I close my eyes, I make a promise to myself. I will never give her that power.
Even if it means destroying her first.
13
