Page 102 of Devil's Vows

He is going to be unhinged, but I do as he asks me to.

As he slides with ease into my drenched slit, arousal sweeps through me, but then his hand stills. He must have felt it, his finger connecting with the metal.

“Gabriella—”

Fear pulses through my veins, holding hands with the realization that I was foolish to withhold this from him.

“I’m sorry. I should have—” I break off, quiet tears streaming, a sob trapped in my throat. “I didn’t know how?—”

He touches my piercing, slowly, feels the tip on the one side, sliding over my slick clit to find the other.

Even like this, it turns me on, but something shifts in his stance. His shoulders tense, his eyes narrow, and it hits me he’s come across one of these before.

“What the fuck is this,moya ptichka?”

I swallow, fear crushing any hopes for tonight. “A reminder to never touch myself, to stay pure—”—for the man I was promised to. The man who really owns me.

Incredulity flashes in his eyes. “That’s what you were told? Holy fucking hell?—”

52

IVAN

I fist the thong and tear it from her body, and it makes a satisfying rip as the frivolous white lace snaps. Gabriella gasps, but already, a shield seems to harden over me as I ignore her and cross to the wall to switch on the light.

For a moment, I have my back to her and press the drenched thong to my nose, inhaling deep. Her arousal is the biggest aphrodisiac out there, and I curse under my breath. For all that there’s a virginal blood stain, my sweet wife, straight from the convent, isn’t as innocent as I thought.

Some shit a man needs to know before he ties the knot. This is one of them.

And what the fuck happened to her period? I’ve been counting, and those last a bit longer and toward the end, the flow isn’t this color.

Of all the things I’ve expected, a piercing never crossed my mind.

It should have. She’s from the fucking Mafia. I checked for tattoos, scarification, any other scar on her skin, but notthis.

All I know is she didn’t give herself this piercing. Someone did, and I’m entitled to know who the fuck it was.

My gaze slices to hers as I turn and toss the drenched thong on the floor.

Fucking hell. She’s crying, curled into a ball, protecting herself.

As if I would hurt her. I’m an asshole, sure, but I’m not that fucker.

“Spread your legs,” I say, already reaching for my pants. This is going to be an aborted fucking mission. Not until we’ve talked. As her husband, I have a right to know.

She’s sitting up now, legs hugged to her chest, head dropped to her knees, closed up.

“Ivan—”

“Do as I say.”

I don’t repeat my first request because she heard me perfectly fine. I can imagine how she interprets my tone because she leans back, cups her hands to her face, and opens her bent legs about two inches.

I soften mentally as I take time to zip up. The visual of her just sitting there, clenched tight like she would have been in that fucking cellar, presses pause. This poor girl has been through a lot, and now this.

“Just let me have a look,moya ptichka,” I say softly, my hand gentle on her knee, applying slight pressure.

She’s breathing hard, similar to that night when she panicked about Irisha and Katya. I want to hold her, comfort her, but first, I’m getting to the bottom of this.