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My chest rumbles with a chuckle, but I still say nothing.
“Would you have shot me, though?” she persists. “If I’d come in smelling like something foul and you didn’t realize it was me, would you have killed me? …Roman?”
I turn so fast she doesn’t register it until her hands are pinned over her head, and I’m staring down at her, my body partially covering hers. “You weren’t stealthy, to begin with,” I drawl, my voice dragging in a rasp. “But even if you smelled like filth—” I let one hand go, holding her wrists with the other.
My finger trails down the side of her face, and I feel a slight tremor run down her spine. “I would’ve known it was you. Your skin…” I murmur the words in her ear. “It hasn’t seen a day of hardship, mydarlingIsabella.”
“You’re making fun of me,” she whispers.
“Fun?” I lift my head, gazing into her eyes. “No. If you’d been an intruder—” My hand drifts lower, fingers grazing her collarbone. “Your body wouldn’t have responded the way it is now.”
“It’s not responding to anything,” she argues, but her words have no weight.
My mouth lifts in a smile. “Really?” Splaying my palm over her chest, I cup her breast, teasing her nipple between my thumb and index finger. She gasps as her back arches off the bed.
Realizing her mistake, she pulls at her hands—to cover her mouth, no doubt. Her struggle is useless, and my palm drifts to her other breast, cupping and squeezing lightly. Her eyes roll back as she bites down hard on her lip. It only urges me on, to the hem of the shirt and under it.
“Fine!” she exclaims as I hover over her inner thighs. “You win.”
Win?I stopped playing her game the moment I touched her. This—this is more. “What do I win, Bella?” I whisper as my head tilts and my lips graze her neck. She whimpers, then curses under her breath, chastening herself.
“The argument,” she replies. She chokes on the words and the rest tumble over one another. “The argument. You win. You’re smarter than I am. You know me better than I know myself. Can you please let me go now?”
“You could’ve let me sleep,” I say.
“God forbid a woman wants to be thankful that she didn’t die.”
That gets me. I lift my head as my brows furrow. “What?”
“What?” she repeats.
I shake my head as I roll off. “You’re something, Isabella.”
Thanking me because I didn’t kill her?I thought she’d have a sharp remark with reference to how I kidnapped her from her wedding, forced her to marry me, and made several comments about killing her father.
The last thing I expected was gratitude.
“I don’t think it should be weird that I don’t want to die,” she mutters. “I’m not my father, if you haven’t gotten the memo.”
True.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned since I tossed her over my shoulder, carrying her screaming out of the cathedral, it’s that Isabella isn’t Marco. She’s strong, fierce, frighteningly brazen, but nothing like him.
It should be a comforting thought, knowing that she’s less likely to stab me in the back.
Why then…does it bother me so much?
When I wakethe next morning, she’s still curled up in my bed, fast asleep.
One arm is flung above her head, the other curled to her chest. One knee is bent awkwardly, sticking out from the sheets in what might be the strangest—and somehow still endearing—sleeping position I’ve ever seen.
Her lips are parted, breath soft and even, lashes resting against flushed cheeks. My gaze lingers longer than it should as I remember last night.
I came close. Close to breaking the wall I crafted over days.
Carefully, I peel myself away, lifting the sheet and sliding out of bed with practiced quiet. Once I’m out, I crack the door open and step into the hallway, only to find Leo leaning casually against the opposite wall, arms crossed, ankles lazily stacked.
“What are you doing here this early?” I ask, my voice a low growl.