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I stand my ground and look into his eyes. Big mistake. His intense gaze bears into me like he's trying to see into my soul. I suck in a breath, trying my best not to show any emotions, but my body betrays me. Heat pools low in my stomach, memories of his mouth, his cock, flooding back. I hate him, and hate myself for wanting him still.
He stops, close—too close. His breath is warm on my face. His voice is low and it rumbles through me as he says, “it’s your father’s proposal. It’s good for both families.” His tone’s clipped,like he’s explaining to a child, his expression faintly annoyed. The arrogance sets my blood on fire.
“Good?” I snap, stepping into his space. “You think you can waltz in here and act like you own me? You’re a fucking Mancini. I’d rather die than marry you. Or maybe I'll make you die first.” My voice is laced with uncontainable fury mixed with the shame of that night, and it makes my teeth rattle.
He doesn’t answer, just watches me, his eyes darkening. Then, without warning, he grabs my face, his hands rough and calloused as they clamp my jaw. Before I can protest, his mouth is on mine. Memories of that night slam into me, and I'm back there again, totally wanton in his arms.
He's kissing me. It’s not gentle, it’s a storm. His lips on mine are hard, demanding, like he’s trying to shut me up for good. Like he's trying to punish me for that night. Like he's trying to chase off the memory of it. His stubble burns my skin, scraping raw, and I taste the faint bite of smoke on his breath mixed with mint. My heart pounds a wild drum in my chest, as his mouth moves. He shows no mercy.
His grip tightens, fingers digging into my skin, tilting my head back to deepen the kiss. His tongue pushes past my lips, hot and bold, claiming every inch, tangling with mine in a way that sends heat exploding through me. I’m drowning, my body betraying me, leaning into him for one stupid moment.
My hands hit his chest, palms flat against the hard muscle under his shirt, and I feel his heartbeat, fast, matching mine. I thinkI should put an end to this, but then his lips press harder. His teeth grazes my bottom lip, a sharp sting that makes me gasp.
The room spins, my knees wobbling as a shiver tears down my spine. It's electric. It's unwanted. His hands slide, one cupping the back of my neck, pulling me closer, the other still on my jaw, controlling every angle.
It’s hungry, primal, his body heat searing through me, and I’m so caught, my skin tingling, my blood roaring. His tongue strokes mine, slow now, deliberate, like he’s savoring the fight, and I hate how it pulls me in, how my fingers curl against his chest, traitorously wanting more. I hate how my body literally turns to mush against him. I allow myself to melt into the heat, into the raw edge of him.
Then I snap back, ripping free, and before I can control my reaction, my hand flies through space, hitting his face hard. The crack echoes through the room. My palm stings. I'd meant the slap to shake him, but he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even blink. He just smirks, smug as hell.
“What the fuck?” I snarl, wiping my lips, though they tingle. I'm still gasping, but I manage to croak out, “don’t you dare touch me again.”
He cocks his head to the side as if weighing my words. “Funny,” he says, his voice dry, “you welcomed my hands all over you that night. Begged for them, even.”
So, he remembers in vivid detail. Heat flares on my cheeks and my stomach clenches, but I don't give him the satisfaction of letting him see how affected I am by his kiss, his words.
“I mean it.” My voice is ice. “The next time you come close to me with your filth, I won’t let it slide.”
An amused glint lights up his eyes as he leans closer, his hot breath caressing my ear. His voice is a rough whisper. “Can’t promise that, princess.”
I open my mouth, ready to tear into him, but he cuts me off. “See you at the wedding.” He turns, strolling out like he hadn't just pulled the craziest stunt on me, leaving me alone in the silent room.
I stand there, my rapid heartbeat the only thing that echoes through the silent room.
What the hell was that?
5
Enzo
Why the hell did I kiss her?
It's the same question I've been mulling on since I left the Rossis’ villa two days ago. Why the hell had I kissed her? At first, I'd done it to shut her up. It wasn't because her lips had invited it. And then, I'd been reeled in, and I couldn't, for the life of me, stop. Easily, I'd say that kiss had been about control, but I know it's complete bullshit.
That kiss wasn’t about control. It washer—those green eyes blazing, her mouth fighting mine, the way she melted for one stupid second before slapping me.
And fuck, I felt it, the same fire from that night four years ago, when she was just a stranger in a bar, begging me to fuck her senseless. I’d known her the second I saw her in that room, her face a ghost from a night I'd buried under lock and key. She definitely remembers too. I saw it in her eyes—the shock, the shame, the heat. Now she’s my enemy, my bride, and I’m losing my grip. My reaction to it had simply caught me off guard. I should question it, but I don't.
Something else that had caught me off guard was her looks. I hadn't allowed myself to imagine that Domenico Rossi, as ugly as he is in deeds, would birth a stunning daughter. And Serafina sure is stunning.
But I can't allow a lapse in control anymore.
She's my enemy and will be treated as such. What happened was a moment that can never be allowed to happen again. But even at that, I can admit that night will be forever burned into my memory, and there's no forgetting it.
Now though, the manor is abuzz with servants hustling through the courtyard, setting up for this cursed wedding. Domenico had proposed to have the wedding in his villa, while the reception will be held here. I'd agreed because everything has to go according to plan.
White-clothed tables crowd the gravel, piled with roses and lilies, their sweet stench thick in the air. I stand in the study, whiskey glass in hand, staring out the arched window at thefrenzy. My suit’s unbuttoned, tie loose, and I’m craving a fight, not a fucking bride.
My door creaks open and I don't bother to check who it is. I hear the sound as the person settles on the couch. “Ready to be the groomsman?” I say, expecting a biting retort from Matteo.