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I shake my head. “You don’t need me for that.”
His head tilts slightly, a sly grin spreading across his face. “No,” he admits. “I don’t. But it will help. And… I want you.”
The disgust rises in my throat like bile, and I force myself to choke it down. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know far more than you think.” His eyes drift over my face and down my body with a hunger that makes my skin crawl and heat simultaneously. “From the first moment I saw you, I knew you were mine.”
A shiver traces down my spine. There’s a sickness in his obsession, a violation that should repulse me completely. Yet a dark, twisted part of my mind thrills at being so completely desired; at being the object of such intense, unwavering focus that he would demand a stranger’s hand in marriage. It’s horrifying, this secret part of me that preens under the weight of his gaze even as every fiber of my being screams at me to run.
The waiter arrives with our food, pulling me from my darkest thoughts as he sets plates of duck before us both. Roman picks up his knife and fork. “I’m not all bad, angel.” He sighs lightly, and the endearment makes me flinch. “Marry me. Save your family. And you’ll have a life of luxury with a man who desires you more than anything in this world.”
“I hate you.”
“You don’t know me well enough to hate me… Yet.” He smiles, and it’s almost charming. “Give it time.”
I pick up my fork and force myself to eat some of the food on my plate, because I don’t know what else to do.
“You’re wondering whether you can run,” he muses, and I freeze with the fork halfway to my mouth as he practically reads my thoughts. “Wondering if you can disappear to Europe, change your name, and start over. Whether or not your mother’s family would have the means to hide you.”
I place the fork down with the bite of meat still on it. “Stop.”
“You won’t,” he continues, his voice maddeningly calm. “Because you love your mother too much to leave her alone and uncared for. And while you might be angry with your father, you won’t see him destroyed. Underneath all that Harrington pride, you’re a practical woman.” He reaches across the table, and his fingers brush against my knuckles, sending electricity up my arm. “And we both know, some part of you is curious. A dark little part of you that wants to know what it would be like to be wanted this wholly.”
I should pull away, scream, throw my wine in his face, and walk out into the night, letting the chips fall where they may, but I don’t. Because he’s right. About all of it.
His rough palm slides up to my wrist, his thumb finding the pulse point where my heart is hammering as I futilely try to deny his claims. “You’re wrong.”
“Am I?” Roman rises and rounds the table. Towering over me and casting me in his shadow, he stands so close that his thigh brushes against my arm. Slowly, yet deliberately, he raises one hand and dusts his knuckles along my cheekbone.
Pulling back slightly from his heated touch, I snip, “I’ll never love you.” The words sound childish, but I mean them with every fiber of my being.
“I don’t need you to love me, angel,” he croons with a devilish grin, his voice barely audible above the hum of the restaurant. His thumb traces the line of my jaw, tilting my chin up until I’m forced to meet his searing gaze. “I just need you to obey.”
Chapter Three
Cora
The wedding ends not with a bang, but with a whisper of silk and tulle rustling down the aisle, the suffocating weight of a marriage I didn’t ask for, and a three-carat emerald-cut reminder of a life I don’t want wrapped around my finger.
Our limousine makes its way through Chicago’s early evening traffic, the two of us sitting in silence in the back. I haven’t been able to bring myself to look at Roman since the judge finalized our nuptials and he kissed me. As the buildings pass, I find myself contemplating which of those two things I am most upset about.
“We’re home,” Roman announces when the car pulls to a stop at the curb. I step out of the car without waiting for him to open my door—a small defiance, pathetic in its pettiness—and freeze when I see where he’s brought me.
“You can’t be serious. This isn’t my home.” My voice sounds thin, stretched tight over the scream I’ve been swallowing for weeks as I stare at the towering building before me. It’s a far cry from my Gold Coast graystone.
“You’re right, angel. This isn’t your home. This is our home,” Roman counters, appearing at my elbow. With his hand on the small of my back, Roman guides me toward the entrance. After ushering me past the doorman, he leads me to the private elevator. The floors pass for what feels like an eternity before the doors open directly into the penthouse. Despite the horror of my situation, a tiny gasp blows over my lips at the soaring ceilings and the remarkable Lake Michigan view through the panoramic windows.
“Champagne.” Roman’s hand slips from my back before he makes his way to the bar.
“No.”
The cork pops from the bottle as Roman chuckles darkly. “It wasn’t a request, angel.”
“Please stop calling me that!” I turn to face him, my hands clenched at my sides. “I’m not drinking with you. I’m sure as hell not celebrating with you. I’m not doing anything with you except waiting for the moment I can escape this nightmare.”
He pours two glasses anyway, the golden liquid rising in flutes that catch the sunset light spilling through the windows. He crosses the room to me and holds out the glass. “Take it.”
My lips pursing, I shake my head.
