Page 38 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream (Dark Hearts #3)

S erafina

I’m noticing something of a theme here. Once again, I’m sitting in a blacked out car with Andreas by my side, his nostrils flaring, his hands curled into fists on his knees. But in a fresh twist, I decide to break the silence.

“Are you a bad traveler?”

He frowns and darts his gaze to me. “What?”

“Do you not like traveling?”

He narrows his eyes, asking me to elaborate.

“Every time I’ve sat with you in a car, you’ve seemed really tense.”

His jaw ticks. “I’m fine.”

Right. I guess that’s all I’m getting. I pan my gaze out of the window, watching the street lamps burst to life illuminating dark corners and sidewalks.

Then three rasped words make me smile.

“I said ‘demure.’”

I roll my lips inward and glance down at my outfit. I’m wearing a very snug, dark green pencil dress that is cut perfectly to accentuate my curves while balancing out my silhouette with capped sleeves, generous neckline and a nipped in waist.

“This is demure. You can’t even see my knees.”

He shoots me a glare out the corner of his eye and I return to smiling smugly at my reflection in the window.

We reach the venue and step out of the car. There’s no paparazzi greeting us this time. In fact, it feels ominously quiet.

Without a word, Andreas takes my hand and this time I curl my fingers around it. His bicep stiffens at my shoulder and his presence seems to fill out, wrapping itself around me like armor.

Once inside, I turn to him. “I’m just going to the restroom.” The last few minutes holding his hand have sent my body temperature soaring and I need to splash some cold water on my face.

His eyes darken. “I’ll wait here.”

I rest a hand on his arm, feeling the crackle of electricity surge through my fingertips. “You don’t have to wait for me, Andreas. I’m a big girl and it’s safe in here. Go and mingle. I’ll come find you.”

His jaw grinds and he grunts quietly, but he nods and continues into the drinks reception.

I freshen up then make my own way to the function room. Giant chandeliers hang from high ceilings, casting the room in twinkling glimmers of crystal. A small band plays classical music in one corner. It feels elegant and aristocratic—not the kind of circle I’d ever imagined a mafia boss to move in.

I recognize a couple of people from previous dinners and nod to them in greeting, then a warmth covers my right side, making me turn.

“Here.” He holds out a coupe glass filled with pale lemony bubbles. “French 75.”

“My favorite,” I whisper, taking it from him. The glass is so delicate I’m petrified I might drop it. “How did you know?”

His eyes dance beneath long lashes. “Wild guess.”

Yeah. I’ll be speaking to Trilby about this.

We both turn our backs to the wall and look out over the room.

“It’s a beautiful venue. Is there anyone in particular you’re hoping to speak to this evening?”

He takes a slow sip of whiskey and shakes his head. “Right now, it’s more important that I’m seen.”

On cue, a councilor I’ve seen at a previous event approaches us. He’s putting on a convincing enough act but I’ve seen an expression like his before—it’s a combination of awe, fear and the desperate desire to survive.

“Mr. Corioni, how wonderful to see you again. You may recall I supported Governor Grayson with his campaign?”

“I do,” Andreas says, calmly. “I’m sorry for your loss. ”

“Ah well,” the man says. “These things happen don’t they?”

Do they? I glance up at my husband whose expression doesn’t budge. I would lose a million times playing poker with this man.

Andreas’ voice remains smooth. “I hope not.”

“Oh, I mean it’s just one of those things. Yes, it’s a shame, but life must go on, mustn’t it? Boston needs a new governor, after all. I’d be happy to support whomever you feel deserves that role, Mr. Corioni.”

Wait a minute, he’s asking who my husband wants Boston to have as a governor? Then it dawns on me—Andreas really does own this city. People in power fear him so much they want to be on whatever side he’s on, whether it’s right or wrong.

I take a sip of my drink, then turn to my husband.

“I’ll leave you to talk business. I’m going to have a look around.” There are some beautiful paintings hung around the walls—I find those far more fulfilling than a surface conversation about politics.

Ten minutes later, I’ve found an obliging partner with whom I can talk about art, the business of galleries and a certain Trilby Castellano.

His name is David and his husband is apparently a huge fan of my inordinately talented sister.

I decide I like him even more when he furnishes me with another French 75.

Finally, a political event I can actually enjoy .

I’m mid-sentence when I hear large, heavy footsteps round the corner, but they’re coming so fast I don’t have time to react. A thick hand wraps around David’s arm and he’s yanked backward.

“Who are you?” The aggression in my husband’s voice makes David bristle in fear, and a cluster of people who’d been walking past turn around and walk hastily back in the direction they came.

“Nobody.” David holds his hands up, fear fracturing his perfect brow. “I’m nobody, seriously. I was just talking to your wife about… um…”

“The Monet exhibition at the Museum of Fine Arts,” I interrupt. “I mentioned I’d like to take my sister. David works there.”

My husband’s glare thickens. “ David ?”

I want to stamp my foot and say “Yes, the man has a name” but the look on Andreas’ face tells me that wouldn’t be wise. So, instead, I thread my fingers through his, shoot David an apologetic smile that hopefully says our conversation isn’t yet over, and pull Andreas into a long, empty corridor.

Once we’re out of earshot of other guests, I spin around to glare at him. “What was that about? You just rudely interrupted a perfectly pleasant conversation.”

Andreas opens his mouth and an actual growl comes out. “He wanted to fuck you.”

My head jerks back in shock. “What? No, he didn’t. We were just talking.”

“He was drooling .”

“You saw him for ten seconds, max. You can’t tell if someone is drooling in such a short timeframe.” And of course, he’s gay, but I’m not telling my husband that because that’s not the point.

The lines on his brow furrow deeper and I can tell my defense is pissing him off, but I don’t care.

I don’t want our marriage to be like this—me following him around at events like a puppy on a leash not breathing a word to anyone should they wish to punctuate the conversation with sexual intercourse.

I want to be able to talk to someone other than Viola, get to know people in the city, have fun .

“He’s a red-blooded man.”

I throw my arms out to the side. “And what’s wrong with red-blooded men?”

His shoulders round and he towers over me. He presses a large, hot hand to my bare chest and pushes me back until my spine hits something hard. I look around to see we’re out of sight in a deep-set doorway, and my heart is pounding.

His voice has lowered to a deep snarl. “They can’t be trusted.”

“And what about me?” I whisper up at him. “It takes two, doesn’t it? Don’t you trust me?”

His throat bobs as he stares down at me. His hand slides up from my chest to the base of my neck and he curls his fingers around it gently.

He shakes his head. “I want to trust you.”

His words feel like a sharp slap. “So why don’t you?”

With his hand still wrapped around my throat, he rakes his gaze over my body and licks his lips, making my knees tremble. “Because…look at you.”

I swallow, dryly. “ What ?”

“Fucking look at you.” His gaze swims with something bordering on insanity. It is so wild and dark and needy I would fall back against the door if I were not already rammed up against it.

I close my lips and swallow. “I’m not going to stray, Andreas.”

He releases a short, bitter laugh and shakes his head.

My stomach drops along with my voice. “And you know why I won’t.”

For a moment, his dark gaze searches mine, then it stops.

“The scars,” he says.

I let my gaze fall to the ground, then the heat of his forehead presses against mine.

“I don’t want that to be the reason you don’t stray, Sera.”

My hearts stutters. He hasn’t used my abbreviated name since we got engaged. “What other reason would I have?”

His hand slides up my throat to cup my chin, lifting it until my eyes cannot escape his. “Me,” he replies. “ I want to be the reason you don’t stray.”

This very second, I see it. A vulnerability he lets no one have sight of. Only me, in this moment. He wants me to want him, the way I used to when I thought he was someone else.

I’ve made it very clear since then that I’ve wanted nothing to do with Andreas Corioni. But gradually, as the weeks have passed and the more ‘well’ I’ve become, the deeper he has slid beneath my skin. Without realizing it, I’ve begun to fall for my husband.

His gaze skates about my face, searching for any reassurance that I wouldn’t stray, because of him and not the scars I engraved in my skin.

I lift up onto the tips of my toes and press my lips to his. They’re warm and soft. His gaze bores into me so intensely I have to close my eyes for fear this kiss won’t be reciprocated.

Then, finally, he presses his full weight against me and I sigh into his mouth.

His lips part, taking mine with them and he draws my tongue into his mouth.

He licks across it, and I feel it everywhere.

Both his hands reach up to take hold of my face and he sets to work on a kiss that has my body melting into the floor.

He tastes every corner, nips gently at my lips and licks at my tongue.

He groans into my mouth and I swallow every sound, mirroring his hunger with my own.