Page 25 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream (Dark Hearts #3)

S erafina

The day passes too quickly, and when the time comes for me to leave this hotel for the one where we’ll be spending the night, I find myself clinging to my sisters as though my life depends on it.

The ceremony only feels like it was two seconds ago, though since then I’ve chatted my way through reception drinks and canapés, composed myself through photographs, and kept all my feelings buried throughout the meal and subsequent dancing.

I shook like a leaf all the way to the church this morning.

I threw up the contents of my stomach on arrival, then continued to tremble as we walked down the aisle to the front of the room where Andreas was waiting.

Even the sight of him standing so tall and muscular in his wedding suit— luxuriously tailored Italian cotton wrapped around a black soul—didn’t slow my racing pulse.

I only stopped shaking when—and this was the biggest surprise of the day—Andreas threw tradition to the wind and took hold of my hand. He cradled it in his inhumanly large palm throughout the entire ceremony, and it felt… comforting.

It made enduring the event I’ve dreaded more than anything else in my life almost easy.

Not that I was able to concentrate on any of it with the tingles that crawled like a live-wire up my arm.

I couldn’t stop thinking that, finally, I was getting what I used to want so badly: he was holding my hand. Andrew Stone was holding my hand.

But it wasn’t Andrew Stone. It was Andreas Corioni, the lying mobster who is using me to advance his own agenda, and ripping up my life and everything I’ve been working toward in the process.

The scars on my thighs throbbed throughout the entire ceremony, and I ached to hide myself away with my kit.

Somewhere no one would find me, so I could release all these horrifically enormous feelings raging around my body.

And now, as I watch Andreas catch my gaze from across the room and give me a look that I know means it’s time for us to leave, I’m feeling nauseous, anxious and panicked all over again.

I have a game plan. It’s all I’ve thought about since I unlocked my drawer.

I’m going to give him a list of conditions.

I know I can’t escape the wedding night sex.

I know it’s my duty now to give him my virginity.

But I’m certain there’s a way we can do it so that he doesn’t see or feel the scars on my thighs.

I will insist on the lights being shut off, and I’ll be wearing the satin set I chose especially. The shorts can be removed at the very last minute and the top is long enough that it will cover my thighs should I need to use the bathroom.

Then, with any luck, once the wedding night is over and done with, he’ll be away a lot with his ‘work’ and I can feign sleep, headaches, period cramps… The list I’ve made is impressively long.

The goodbyes are a blur. I’m leaving my whole family to go north, permanently.

I’ve only left New York one time, to visit Papa’s family in Italy, so the thought of moving to a completely new state is nerve-wracking.

But, while my sisters’ tears run down their faces, my eyes remain dry.

The terror of what’s to come is too close to the front of my mind to allow me to see anything else.

His palm heats my elbow as he guides me to the waiting car and I settle uneasily into the back seat.

A dark and deathly shadow, he moves around the back of the vehicle and slides in beside me.

I automatically turn to look out of the window to wave goodbye to my family, and I don’t turn back again the entire ride.

When we draw up to the hotel, I wait for Andreas to open the door then I step out onto the sidewalk, avoiding his gaze.

His palm yet again burns, but this time on the small of my back as we walk into the hotel lobby.

The concierge simply nods at Andreas and we head straight for the elevators.

Once inside, I face the doors and chew my lip.

My knees are knocking together I’m shaking so badly.

I haven’t looked at him once since we left, but his presence is overwhelmingly there . Unavoidably everywhere .

I watch the numbers rise and rise, until we reach what seems to be the very top of the building, then the doors glide open to a sea of silence—something completely foreign in New York City.

My heels click on marble tile then stop at the only door on the floor. It’s black, patent lacquer, illuminated by soft down-lights and up lights hidden in the floor and ceiling. It has ‘obscenely expensive’ written all over it.

Andreas flashes a card at a spot on the door and the click of a lock sounds.

He pushes it open and the most opulent hotel suite I’ve ever seen in my life is revealed inch by inch.

It is a riot of textures. Velvet, satin, leather and cashmere, in black, silver, gold and emerald tones—the exact shade of my bridesmaid dresses.

My eyes stretch wide and I swallow back admiration at the extravagance, the opulence, the impeccable taste of whomever decorated this place. Then a sense of unease tickles the base of my spine. Apart from the green accents, this place is not me at all. It’s shadowy, mysterious and sexy .

It’s sensual and filled with dark promise.

“You can come in, you know.” Andreas’ voice makes me jump and I look into his eyes for the first time since we left. They are slightly playful and designed to put me at ease.

Whatever resentment I have toward him, whatever hatred I feel in the dead of night and starkness of day, he’s good at this.

His expressions manipulate . His touch numbs . His words seduce .

I step tentatively over the threshold and hear a long slow breath issue from his lungs. He reaches past me and closes the door. The lock clicks back into place, sounding the death knell for my life as I know it.

I stand in the center of a living area looking out at a vibrantly lit Manhattan as he moves about in the shadows.

My voice sounds small in the cavernous room. “Is my night bag here?”

He stops mid-stride and faces me. “Master suite.” He jerks his head toward a door. It is painted in matt black which almost camouflages the intricate cornicing on its outer edges. “Through here.”

My heart jumps up into my throat and I follow him through the door into another deeply textured room. At least this one has accents of pale gold, cream and mustard, but it does nothing to lessen the dark sense of foreboding that hangs around the place like a bad smell.

The bed seems unfeasibly prominent in the center of the room and my heartrate picks up instantly. I curl my fingers into my palms to distract me from my racing pulse. I can’t have a panic attack now. My gaze drops to my bag which has been seated in the middle of a bench at the foot of the bed.

I follow Andreas’ arm to an open door and see an illuminated waterfall shower beyond it. I swallow hard. My throat is so dry it hurts.

“Drink?”

I shake my head on impulse, then stop, remembering my painfully dry throat. “Um, maybe a glass of water?”

His gaze rolls over my body as if he’s taking in the sight of me wearing a wedding dress for the last time. There’s a sadness to it, which confuses me. He was the one who wanted this, not me. Then he nods and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

I grip the nearest piece of furniture and release an enormous breath. Finally, I’m alone. But without my kit, I don’t like it. I don’t like being alone with my feelings. They’re too overbearing and painful. But I don’t have my kit here, and even if I did, there’s no way I could use it.

I grab my bag and walk into the bathroom, then I change into my specially chosen night set and wash my face.

My heart is hammering against my ribcage.

As much as I hate it, I had real feelings for Andrew.

He made me smile; he calmed me; sometimes he made me feel like I was the only woman in the world.

I have to remind myself that the man in this suite and the man who kissed me in front of a roomful of guests isn’t Andrew, but it’s hard when his touch is exactly the same, and his gaze still makes me feel warm and tingly .

Those feelings are quickly overtaken by resentment.

I can’t get around the fact he lied to my face.

He played me like a pack of cards. He hasn’t considered my feelings once in all of this.

He must think he’s such a God that no woman could ever not want him.

He’s probably right, but for one exception: me.

And even I was sucked in there for a while.

When I re-emerge into the bedroom, a glass of water is waiting for me on the night stand. I quickly sip it then slide beneath the sheets.

I have no idea if this is the right thing to do. Should I wait for him? Should we spend time talking first? I have nothing to say to him, and anything he does say I will struggle to believe. My thoughts are cut short when he knocks on the door.

“Um, come in.”

It opens and he stands in the doorway, filling it. This place is so dark I can only see his silhouette, but I’m thankful I can’t see the details. The details are what makes my heart forget my conviction.

Slowly, he walks into the room, toward the bed. I hold my breath, gulping it down painfully when his weight makes the bed dip slightly. He’s sitting on the edge, his body twisted toward me, and now I can see the details. His sharp jawline, his violent eyes—less soft now, almost predatory.

I grip the sheets and pull them a little higher toward my chin.

His gaze roams every inch of my face. Then he reaches out to move a curl that has fallen onto my forehead, and trails his fingertips from my temple to my throat.

Sparks flair inside my belly as my tight breaths border on hyperventilation.

His lips part and two words rumble through them.

“ My wife .”

My heart stammers and seconds pass in hours.