Page 26 of Claimed By the Enemy

“Dom.”

Her voice cuts through the living area, but I don’t slow down. Don’t turn around. If I look at her right now, if I see that dress clinging to her curves or remember how she looked in another man’s arms, I’m going to do something we’ll both regret.

“Dom, wait.”

But I’m already disappearing into the part of the house she’s never explored.

Down another flight of stairs. Through a heavy wooden door. Into the wine cellar.

Cool air hits my face as I step inside, carrying the rich scent of aged oak and fermenting grapes. It’s almost chilly down here, a sharp contrast to the heated tension I’ve been carrying all evening.

I don’t come down here often. Maybe six or seven times a year, when I need to think, to escape the weight of running an empire and managing everyone’s expectations.

However, the house staff keeps it perfectly maintained, dusting the bottles and polishing the dark wood table that sits in the center of the space.

Ancient stone walls surround me, lined with climate-controlled wine racks that hold bottles worth more than most people’s cars. Above the table, a wrought-iron chandelier casts warm, flickering light that dances across the stone, creating intimate shadows in the corners.

I pour myself three fingers of a fifty-year-old scotch from the bar cart and lean against the table, letting the silence wash over me.

I take a sip and close my eyes, trying to find some semblance of the man I was before Sophie Bellini walked into my office with her fake name and her real agenda.

“Hiding?”

My eyes snap open. Sophie stands in the doorway, one hand resting on the stone archway. She’s still in her dress, and her feet are bare against the cold floor.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, not moving from my position against the table.

“Looking for my husband.” She steps into the cellar, and the chandelier light catches the silk of her dress, making it shimmer like water. “Funny thing, though. I’m not sure I actually have one.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sophie moves closer, her fingers trailing along the wine racks as she walks. “What kind of husband sees his wife dancing with another man and completely ignores her?”

I take another sip of scotch, using the burn to focus my thoughts. “The kind who trusts his wife to handle herself in social situations.”

“Trust.” She lets out a brittle laugh. “That’s what you call it?”

“What would you call it?”

“Indifference. Cowardice, maybe.” She’s directly across from me now, separated only by the width of the table. “Or maybe you just don’t care what I do. Who I talk to. Who I dance with.”

My grip tightens on the glass. “Careful, Sophie.”

“Careful of what? Of telling the truth?” She leans forward, bracing her hands on the table. “You introduced me to your friends as Sophie Bellini. You made sure everyone in that room knew exactly who I was and what my family name represents. Then you walked away and left me to deal with the consequences.”

“You seemed to be handling it just fine.”

“Did I? Because from where I was standing, it felt like you threw me to the wolves and then disappeared.”

“You found ways to entertain yourself.”

“Ah.” Her smile is sharp enough to cut. “So you did notice. I was beginning to wonder.”

Heat flares in my chest, angry and possessive. “I noticed.”

“But you didn’t do anything about it.”

“What did you expect me to do?”