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Her nose flares, angry at being alluded to as a fool. She doesn't miss it. I'd more or less called her that, just not in clearer terms. She shifts on her feet. Her mouth works, but it produces no sound. I can bet she has a lot to say, but she's biting her tongue to hold the words in.
“Fine, but that's all I'm agreeing to.”
I nod. “Fair enough.”
She continues as if my input was only a minor inconvenience. I almost smile. Raising her hackles could be a habit to get used to. “Second, we play nice in public. No fights, no scandals. Third, you don’t touch me unless I allow it.” Her eyes flick to my lips, and I know she’s replaying that kiss because for a moment, her eyes glaze over. She's not just remembering that kiss. My cock twitches as the image of her screaming in ecstasy as I fuck her to a trembling mess over and over again assails me. I mentally shake my head. I have to keep my head.
I stand, stepping into her space, our faces inches apart, meeting her gaze. “No need for rules,” I say, voice low. “I’m not playing husband, Fina. This is a deal, not a marriage.”
Her eyes flash. “Perfect,” she snaps. “Because I’d rather choke than be your wife.”
Oh, but there are other ways in which I can claim her.
Obviously, she'd hoped for a reaction because there's a small, indignant smile playing on her lips. It doesn't sway me. I just watch her, the way her chest rises fast as if she's nervous and angry at the same time. That heat’s back, pulling at me, and I fight the urge to grab her, to taste that fire again.
She continues to hold my stare, unflinching. “The wedding’s in a week,” she says. “I want control over everything—venue, menu, vows. I’m not your prop.”
I nod, my amusement growing. “Fine. Pick your flowers, princess. Doesn’t change a thing.”
Her jaw clenches, and she shoves the paper at me. “Read it. Follow it. Or I’ll make your life hell.” Our fingers brush as I take it, and a spark shoots through me. It's raw and electric, pulling me back into that night.
Her eyes widen and her breath catches, like she felt it too. Without another word, she turns, heading for the door, her walk all steel and grace.
I watch her go, my mind stuck on her, on those eyes, that mouth, the way we're not halfway in yet, and she's already fighting me tooth and nail. This marriage is a trap, but damn, she makes ittempting. I down the rest of my whiskey, the burn doing nothing to cool the heat she’s left behind.
The study’s quiet now, just the tick of the clock on the wall, but my blood’s still humming. I unfold her paper, scanning her neat handwriting, and chuckle. Rules. Like she can control this. Control me. She’s got no idea who she’s dealing with. Or maybe she does. Only she doesn't know I'm a completely different man from the night four years ago, and this is a completely different situation.
Outside, the courtyard’s still a mess, servants shouting, crates of wine stacking up. I step to the window, watching them, but my mind’s on her, on that kiss and the way she stood her ground. I’ve never met a woman like her, all fire and ice, ready to raze me to the ground. She's the woman I'd fucked all right. And even now knowing what she represents, I should put a leash on this thing I feel for her, but I can't seem to do it. I can't even completely forget that night. It’s a problem, this pull she has on me.
I’m not here to want her or to feel anything. This is about power, about crushing the Rossis from the inside. I curl my fingers into a fist, as if in doing so, I’ll fight my overwhelming attraction to her.
I turn from the window, tossing the paper on the desk. Matteo’s probably out there, barking orders, making sure this wedding doesn’t fall apart. He’s the one who pushed this, him and Adriano, saying it’s a power move. I don't fault them. It's a genius move if I do say so myself.
The door creaks, and I tense, half-expecting Alanna to slink back, and gearing to tell her to get the fuck out, but it’s just a servant coming to drop off more papers—guest lists, menus, shit I don’t care about.
I wave him off, sinking into the chair behind the desk. My gun’s there, holstered on the side, its weight a comfort. I run a hand over my face, feeling the scar on my brow, a reminder of a knife fight years ago. Serafina’s eyes had lingered on it, I’d bet, when I got close. She’s sharp. She notices things. She can read me and that spells trouble.
It's dangerous.
I pour another whiskey, the bottle nearly empty, and lean back, staring at the ceiling. The study’s walls are lined with books, old leather tomes my father collected, their spines cracked from years of use. This room was his, where he planned wars, made deals.
Now it’s mine, and I’m stuck planning a wedding to a woman who’d rather kill me than kiss me or have anything to do with me again. The thought makes me laugh. She’s a Rossi, but she’s not like them. Not like Riccardo, that hot-headed fuck but still spineless, or Domenico, all cold calculation. She’s something else, maybe a combination of both, but never spineless, and it’s throwing me off.
My phone buzzes. It's a text from Matteo: Everything’s on track. Don’t fuck this up.
I snort, tossing the phone down. He knows me too well, knows I’m itching to blow this whole thing apart, to hit the Rossis hard instead of playing groom. But he’s right. This is smarter, cleaner. I just didn’t expect her to be part of the equation, stirring shit I don’t want to feel.
I close my eyes, and there she is. I firmly put the image of her away. I'm doing this to get revenge. I shouldn't lose sight of my goal. Serafina is nothing but a steppingstone to my goal, and my sworn enemy.
She is my sworn enemy.
The clock ticks louder, marking time I don’t have. In a week, she’ll be my wife, and I’ll have to figure out how to keep this deal without losing my edge. Her rules are bullshit—she can’t cage me, and I won’t let her try.
But as I sit here, whiskey burning my throat, I know one thing: Serafina Rossi’s trouble, the kind that could burn me down if I’m not careful.
And fuck, part of me wants to let it. Just for the high.
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