Salvatore slides in beside me, and the door closes with a soft thunk. The privacy partition is already up. We're alone in the dark backseat, the city lights sliding past the tinted windows. And then we’re gone. That was a fucking disaster.
"You had no right," I finally say. "I had every right." His voice is tight, controlled. "You're mine." "I'm not your property." "You're my fiancée. Which means any man who touches you risks dying."
I turn to face him, fury burning in my chest. "I grew up in this world, Salvatore. Maybe not your crazy kill everyone for breathing and kidnap woman instead of asking her out when you look like a freaking male model from a dark fantasy world, but I know how to handle creeps who think they can grope their way to a business deal. I didn't need you to swoop in and mark your territory."
"Mark my territory?" He laughs. "You think that's what this is about?"
"Isn't it?"
He moves so fast I don't have time to react. One moment we're on opposite sides of the backseat, the next he's crowding me against the door, his hands braced on either side of my head, his face inches from mine.
"I saw your face when he put his hand on you," he says, his voice raw, "I wanted to kill him. Not injure. Not threaten. Kill. Slowly. With my bare hands. I don’t even touch you like that, not unless you want me to, and you think I’m going to let another man do it?"
My breath catches.
"That's not territory, Valentina. That's not possession." His forehead drops to mine, and I can feel him shaking. "That's me losing my fucking mind because someone touched what's mine and I wasn't there to stop it."
"I'm not."
"You are." His hand cups my jaw, tilting my face up. "You became mine the moment I saw you and you may not want to admit it, but I became yours the night I got injured.” I don’t know what to say, is he right? Is that the day that my heart started opening up to this madness? “All I know is that if any man ever touches you again, I will end him. And I won't feel a goddamn thing except satisfaction."
Heat pools low in my belly, slicking through me in traitorous welcome.
"That's insane," I whisper.
"Yes."
"You're insane."
"Probably." His thumb traces my lower lip, and I shiver. "But you already knew that."
The car stops, and I see we're already at the mansion.
Salvatore pulls back and exits without a word, holding the door open for me with an expression I can't read.
I should go to my room. Should put distance between us and the fire that's been building between us.
Instead, I follow him through the front door. Through the marble foyer. Up the stairs.
“You know, Salvatore, you cannot keep doing things like this. You and your stupid macho man attitude. Plus, if you had given me a ring and proposed like a normal fucking person, it may have not have gone that far because you know what hesaid? That he doesn’t see a ring. That’s on you. You go through all of this and don’t even bother stopping by a fucking gumball machine to pretend you really care about normalcy even a little?” He keeps walking, but I keep following him, finally giving him a piece of my mind, and the crazy thing is, I’m not even afraid of Salvatore anymore. I don’t know what the heck I feel at this point. “Look at me,” I continue, but he keeps walking. “You told me that you wanted me to choose you, that you wanted this to be something, but you and your possessiveness show otherwise," I hiss, trying to whisper.
He walks toward his wing of the house, and I'm right behind him, my heels clicking against the hardwood, my heart hammering. “Why do you keep walking away? You need to stop so we can talk about this.”
He doesn't look back. Doesn't acknowledge that I'm following.
He just opens his bedroom door and walks inside.
I follow… And then I freeze, not even realizing I walked straight into Salvatore's bedroom.
The realization hits me like cold water. The last time I was in his room was that night of the shooting and everything was chaotic. Now I see it clearly.
It's massive. A king-sized bed dominates one wall, the headboard carved from dark wood, the bedding crisp and white. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a view of the moonlit gardens. A fireplace crackles in the corner.
It smells and even feels like him. I stand in his doorway and I think about leaving.
Not the way I've been thinking about it for weeks, vague escape fantasies involving trucks and gates and the road back to my apartment or my mother's house. I mean right now, thissecond. I think about turning around, walking back down the hall, closing my door, and letting tonight be the night I finally draw the line that stays drawn.
I can do it. He won't stop me. Not here, not like this. Whatever Salvatore Vitale is, he has never once forced this particular thing. Every moment between us has been a door he opened and waited beside, patient and still, while I decided whether to walk through it.
