Page 33
IRIS
The vibration of twin diesel engines hums steadily beneath the soles of my sandals, sending a deep, rhythmic pulse straight through into my bones.
The air out here on the open water is nothing like the protected terraces of Tindari. It is wilder, biting with sea salt, damp mist coating my bare arms and whipping long strands of my auburn hair across my face. I stand near the stern of Romeo's yacht, my knuckles white as I hold onto the polished teak railing with both hands.
Every time the massive vessel cuts through an ocean swell, my stomach lurches with the rise and fall of the hull. For someone who lived for three years holed up inside four walls, too terrified of open skies to step outside without having a panic attack, standing on a moving ship in the middle of the Tyrrhenian Sea should send me straight into hyperventilation. The horizon has no edges I can trace with my fingertips. There are no doorways to count, no familiar hallways to measure by pacing, and no ceiling to keep the sky from crushing down on me.
Yet, my chest stays open. My lungs do not seize.
A big part of that is the heavy, breathing warmth leaning right against my right shin. Sofia sits on her haunches, her muscular shoulder pressed firmly against my bare leg, her tail occasionally tapping the deck. She is my anchor, grounded and calm.
The other reason, the one that makes my blood run hot with a furious, confused ache, stands less than an inch behind my spine.
Romeo.
He has not left my side since he marched me out of his night club. His palm rests flat against the small of my back, fingers splayed wide over the white silk of my sundress. The heat radiating off his hand penetrates the fabric, soaking into my skin like an iron brand. He does not need rope or handcuffs to keep me in place. His presence alone is a cage, towering, suffocating, and entirely inescapable. It makes me feel safe, confusing me even more.
The heavy platinum ring on my left hand feels freezing whenever a gust of wind hits it. Every time I move my fingers, the sharp facets of the emerald-cut stone dig into the neighboring knuckle, an unending reminder of what he claims I am.
His Donna. His wife.
"You're shivering, Kitten," his voice rumbles softly against the shell of my ear, rich and velvety, cutting cleanly through the roar of the wake trailing behind us.
The scent of him washes over me in a warm wave: dark tobacco from his morning cigar, aged scotch, and the clean, sinful undertone of cinnamon and cedar that clings to his skin.
"I told you already, I'm fine," I bite out, keeping my spine stiff, refusing to let myself lean back against the broad expanse of his chest even though I badly want to. "I don't need your fussing."
A low, amused chuckle vibrates against my shoulder blades, sending an involuntary shiver skipping down my spine.
"It isn't fussing, little wife. It's an investment. I take care of what belongs to me."
Before I can snap a retort, heavy, warm wool settles gently over my shoulders. The jacket is massive on my small frame, reaching past my hips, carrying all of his body heat and that aroma that has invaded my dreams for years. He pulls the lapels together in front of my throat, his long, calloused fingers brushing against the bare skin of my collarbone.
His touch lingers, fingers curling slightly around the side of my neck. His thumb sweeps upward in a slow, possessive stroke, tracing the delicate edge of my jawline before stopping right beneath the lower edge of my scarlet silk ribbon.
"Such a defiant mouth," he whispers, leaning down until his rough stubble grazes my temple. "You clench your teeth so hard I can hear them grinding over the engines. What's going through that brilliant, stubborn mind of yours?"
"I'm wondering if a torpedo would put us both out of our misery," I say brokenly, tilting my face upward toward where I know his dark eyes are watching me. "In case you forgot the phone call last night, my brother is currently running for his life in the Scottish Highlands because of your war. The Edinburgh diocese wants my blood to settle an old score, and you're dragging me out on a luxury yacht like we're on a romantic holiday."
Romeo's fingers tighten in my hair at the base of my skull, not enough to truly hurt, but just enough to force my chin up, asserting his absolute control.
"Jamie knows how to kill, Iris," he says, his tone losing every ounce of playfulness, replaced by the lethal, granite edge of the Don. "The O'Connors might have been sloppy business partners, but your brother knows how to hunt. He will handle the rats up north, and I will protect what is mine down here. No one touches you. No one even looks at you with malice while I draw breath. Do you understand me?"
"And what about what I want?" I ask, my hands lifting to grip his wrists, trying to pry his hand away from my hair, but his muscles are made of iron. "Did you ever think to ask if I wanted to be saved by a monster who drugged my tea and watched me sleep through cameras?"
Romeo leans closer, his lips brushing against mine, soft and mocking.
"You wanted to be safe, Iris. You wanted a protector who wouldn't abandon you the moment things turned ugly. Your father is a weak drunk who threw you to the wolves to save his own skin. I didn't steal you from a good man; I stole you from a coward. And down in that cabin, when we were just kids, your blood mingled with mine on that floor. You belonged to me then, and you belong to me now."
"You're insane," I gasp, my breath mingling with his.
"Hopelessly," he murmurs, his lips slanting over mine in a brief, punishing kiss that steals the air straight from my lungs before he releases my hair.
Before I can regain my balance, his arm wraps around my waist, lifting me off the teak deck in one effortless sweep.
"Romeo! Put me down!" I shriek, my sandals kicking against his thighs as he turns away from the railing.
"The wind is picking up, and your skin is too soft to take the salt spray all day," he commands, carrying me across the deck toward the private stateroom. "Inside. Where I can keep you warm."
