Page 30 of Wicked Sinner

"I think you're scared," she whispers, her face tilted up toward mine. "I think you're terrified that no matter what you do, no matter how much you threaten or bribe or manipulate, I'm never going to give in to you. I’m never going to want you again."

The words hit like a physical blow, and for a moment, I can't breathe. She's too close, too warm, too fucking perfect, and I want to grab her chin, kiss her, devour her until she remembers just how wrong she is.

“Liar,” I whisper, leaning closer, and this time I see her pulse leap in her throat. “You want me. You still do. You’re just fighting it, the way you’re fighting me. You’ll give in eventually.”

“Never,” she whispers, her hazel eyes locked on mine, her full mouth parted, and I can feel my cock throbbing. I want her so fucking badly, but if I touch her now, I’ll never have her again.

Instead, I step back, putting distance between us before I do something I’ll regret.

"Get dressed," I say tightly, my patience hanging by a frayed thread. "Something nice. The dress you wore the other night to dinner, I don’t care. We're going out."

Bridget blinks, thrown off by the sudden change in my demeanor. "Where?"

I turn to leave, striding toward the door before I give in and touch her. "You'll see."

—

The church that I drive Bridget and me to is small and old, tucked away in a part of Miami that most tourists never see.

Father Martinez has been on my family's payroll for years, a priest clinging to his righteousness by a thread, the money my father gave him sustaining this place for years. I pull around behind the church, hoping Bridget won’t catch on, but she does.

I see it in her face the moment we pull in, a mulish expression there as she glares at me.

She looks fucking gorgeous. She put on a long cream maxi dress with a blue and green floral and leaf pattern, her long neck, sharp collarbones, and lightly toned arms accentuated by the thin crisscrossing straps and the bun that she put her hair up in with a few small pieces hanging loose.

But just the look on her face is enough to tell me that she’s not going to get out of the car without a fight.

So instead, I come around to her side. She’s scrambling out before I can get there, but I catch her in two quick strides, scooping her up into my arms. She tries to slap me, but we’ve been here before as well.

I catch her wrists, carrying her to the back door as another SUV pulls up and Marco and one other man get out.

Bridget sees them and tenses, her eyes full of angry, stubborn defiance.

I deposit her just in front of the altar as we walk in. Father Martinez is waiting, and he smirks, looking at the two of us. “It’s customary to carry your bride over the threshold after the ceremony, Caesar, not before.”

“I was in a hurry.” I straighten my jacket and reach for Bridget’s wrist before she can think about running. Marco and Bryce, the two guards, are standing behind us, blocking Bridget’s direct route to the front door, but I don’t put it past her to try some other path.

Bridget looks around the small room, taking in the stained glass windows, the priest, the marriage certificate sitting on the altar where Father Martinez is standing. Her jaw is set, her shoulders stiff, and I know what she’s going to say before she speaks.

"No," she says flatly.

I let out a breath. "Bridget—"

"No." She turns to face me, her eyes blazing with fury. "I told you I wouldn't marry you. I meant it."

"This is just a formality," I say, trying to keep my voice calm. "A legal ceremony to protect you and our child. To make this official and give the child legitimacy. I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to after, until you’re ready. Things at home will change—"

"That’s not my home, and this is a sham," she spits. "I won't be part of it."

Father Martinez clears his throat nervously. "Perhaps we could begin with the vows? Miss Lewis, if you would take Mr. Genovese's hand—"

"I will not," Bridget says firmly. "I will not take his hand, I will not repeat vows, and I will not marry this man."

"The ceremony is very simple," the priest continues, clearly hoping to power through her objections. "Do you, Bridget Lewis, take Caesar Genovese to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

"No," Bridget says clearly. "I do not." She crosses her arms over her chest, her expression murderous. “How’s that for simple?”

"Bridget," I reach for her arm. "This has gone on long enough. Be reasonable."

She jerks away from my touch. "Reasonable? You dragged me to a church to force me into a marriage I don't want after I already said no, and you're asking me to be reasonable?"

"It's for your own protection."

"It's for your ego," she counters. "And your need to control everything and everyone around you."

Father Martinez is looking increasingly uncomfortable. "Perhaps we should postpone—"

"No," I say firmly. "We're doing this today."

"Then you'll be saying the vows to yourself," Bridget says, crossing her arms over her chest. "Because I'm not saying a word."

We stare at each other for a long moment, wills clashing in the tense air between us. I wait for her to give in, but she doesn’t. She stares at me, and I realize she was right about one thing—I can’t force her to say the vows.

“We don’t need vows.” I look at Father Martinez. “We’ll just sign the paperwork—”

“I will not,” Bridget repeats.

“I’ll sign for her.”

“Mr. Genovese.” Father Martinez looks as if he’d like to expire on the spot. “I do what I can, within reason, but this is too far. This is a holy place, a holy endeavor. There must be vows. She must sign her own name—”

“And I won’t,” Bridget repeats. I run my hand through my hair in frustration, teeth grinding at this woman who I want so badly, who is carrying my child, and at this rate is going to be the fucking death of me.

I look back at Marco, admitting defeat for the day. "Take her home," I say quietly.

"With pleasure," Bridget says, turning and marching toward the door. “Take me back, Marco.”

I watch her go, the hollow space in my chest widening with every step she takes.

I’ve lost another round.

And I’m very, very far from winning the war.

—

My next strategy is more subtle, though no less manipulative. And I question, even as I go about it, whether I’m dooming Bridget and me to unhappiness no matter what. Every step I take forward seems to make things worse between us.

Is it worth it if she always hates me? I’m no longer so sure that, eventually, she’ll come around.

Isabella Torrino calls that afternoon, as she has every day this week, with another invitation. This time, it's a dinner party at her family's house, celebrating her youngest sister's birthday.

“I’d love for you to be a guest,” she invites in that sweet, sultry tone that I sometimes wonder if she practices in front of a mirror. "It would mean so much to me."

Normally, I would try to decline. But today, I see an opportunity. The only strategy I haven’t tried with Bridget so far because, truthfully, I hate the idea of it. But I’m becoming desperate.

"I'd be delighted," I tell her. "What time should I arrive?"

When I inform Bridget that I'll be out for the evening, she doesn't even look up from her book.

"Have fun," she says flatly. She’s barely said two words to me in any given interaction since yesterday, when I tried to take her to the church.

I lean back against the door, the motion familiar now.

I wonder for a moment if I’m becoming addicted to our arguments, as well as her.

If the back and forth is becoming a part of my routine, something that I almost look forward to, because at least then, she’s not ignoring me.

At least then, there’s a possibility of moving forward.

"Isabella is a lovely woman," I say casually. "Beautiful, accomplished, from a good family. Everything a man could want in a wife."

"Congratulations," Bridget turns a page. "I hope you'll be very happy together."

Her complete lack of reaction is maddening. I was hoping for jealousy, for some sign that the thought of me with another woman affects her. Instead, she seems genuinely indifferent. Either that, or she’s an excellent actress.

I should let it go, but I can’t. The urge to keep needling her, to see if I can get her to give me something, is too strong.

"She's very interested in marriage," I continue. "Children. Building a life together."

"How refreshing," Bridget says dryly. "A woman who actually wants what you're offering."

"She does," I agree. "She understands what it means to be part of this world. She wouldn't fight me at every turn."

"Then marry her," Bridget finally looks up from her book. "Seriously, Caesar. If she's so perfect, if she's everything you want, then propose to her tonight. Problem solved." Her hazel eyes meet mine. “You’d be doing us both a favor.”

It's the logical solution—marry Isabella, legitimize my position, pay off Bridget, and let her leave my life. Find some way to make sure our child never suffers from this. But the thought of actually going through with it makes me feel sick.

"I already have a fiancée," I say quietly.

"No," Bridget corrects. "You have a prisoner who refuses to marry you. There's a difference."

I leave for the dinner party frustrated and angry, but I play my part perfectly. I sit by Isabella, compliment her dress, laugh at her jokes. I let her take my arm possessively when we're introduced to other guests, let her talk about our "future plans" as if they're already decided.

She's radiant with happiness, clearly believing that my attention tonight means something more than it does. When she kisses me on the cheek goodnight at her door, I let her, though I feel nothing but a vague sense of guilt.

"Thank you for a wonderful evening," she murmurs against my ear. "I hope it's the first of many."

The feeling of her warm breath and the sensation of her lips should turn me on, but I feel nothing. "I'm sure it will be," I lie.