Page 44 of Wicked Sinner

“An assassin?” I squeak under my breath as we walk further away, and Caesar looks down at me, something unreadable in his face.

He nods. “Yes,” he says quietly. “That information you found about my father being killed? Those mysterious circumstances? That was Valentina.” His mouth thins slightly. “Konstantin didn’t try to hide it from me, when I came home.”

My eyes widen, and I can’t help looking in the direction that Valentina went, now. “What?” I whisper. “How can you—you’re just going to… have dinner with her? After…”

Caesar’s mouth twitches. “It’s difficult to explain, Bridget. But my father isn’t someone I mourn.”

Caesar introduces me to Tristan O’Malley next, who is there with his wife, Simone, a beautiful brunette.

She’s cool and reserved, and Tristan is pleasant enough, but I can feel the tension between him and Caesar.

They don’t like each other, that much is plain, and Tristan looks at me with an assessing expression on his face that I don’t like.

I see a pretty brunette looking at Caesar from across the room, and I wonder if she’s another of the potential brides, but I don’t ask.

I’m not sure I want to know. Every woman I’ve met so far is beautiful, utterly poised and gorgeous, and perfect, and I feel like the ugly duckling.

Not because I think I’m actually ugly—I know I’m not—but because I feel so out of place.

No one here would want to shake hands with me if I wasn’t married to Caesar.

They wouldn’t even do business with me. I’m not good enough to work on their fucking cars, let alone marry one of them.

And I can feel it, in every interaction, that they’re all just too fucking fake to look in my eyes and tell me what they think of our marriage.

It almost makes me wish it were real, just so I could tell them to go fuck themselves without it being hypocrisy.

By the time we're seated for dinner, my head is spinning from trying to keep track of names and faces and the complex web of relationships between these people. I'm seated between Caesar and an older man who spends the entire first course explaining his yacht to me in excruciating detail.

Isabella is seated directly across from me, next to her father.

I can feel her eyes on me throughout the meal, as I force myself to pick at my food.

It’s delicious—a first course of Caesar salad and pumpkin bisque, followed by a perfectly cooked filet, roasted green beans and squash, and a rice pilaf, but it’s hard for me to eat a bite with the gorgeous blonde staring daggers into me the whole time.

“Of course, if you’re not born to this life, it can be quite an adjustment." Isabella’s voice cuts through my thoughts, and I realize that I missed whatever the first part of the conversation was—but there’s no doubt that it’s directed at me.

"I'm sure Bridget is adjusting beautifully," Valentina Abramov interjects smoothly, though there's something in her tone that suggests she's not entirely convinced.

"Oh, I'm sure she is," Isabella agrees. "Though I imagine it must be overwhelming. The expectations, the responsibilities, the constant scrutiny. Not everyone is cut out for it."

I feel Caesar tense beside me, his hand finding mine under the table and squeezing gently. It's meant to be reassuring, but all I can think about is how right Isabella is. I'm not cut out for this. I'm a mechanic from a little town outside Miami, not some mafia princess bred for this life.

"Bridget is perfectly capable of handling whatever is thrown at her," Caesar says, his voice carrying a warning that makes Isabella's smile falter slightly. I feel my pulse leap traitorously at the sound of it, at the idea of him standing up for me.

He’s a temptation wrapped in a bespoke suit tonight, and the fact that he’s defending me makes it all too easy to forget that he’s why I’m here in the first place.

"I'm sure she is," she replies tartly, but her eyes remain cold.

The conversation moves on to other topics, but I can barely focus. The walls feel like they're closing in, and the luxurious meal tastes like sawdust in my mouth. I need air. I need space. I need to get away from Isabella's cutting remarks and all of the eyes on me.

"Excuse me," I murmur, standing abruptly. "I need to find the ladies’ room.”

I don't wait for a response, just make my way through the ballroom and up the grand staircase to the second floor.

Most of the guests are downstairs, so it's blissfully quiet up here.

I find a balcony overlooking the gardens and step outside, taking a deep breath of the cool, flower-and-salt-scented night air.

The sounds of the party drift up from below—laughter, conversation, the clink of glasses.

It all feels so far away, like I'm watching someone else's life through a window. I don’t belong here, and I never will.

Caesar was a fool to marry me instead of someone like Isabella, whether he likes her or not.

Honestly, I can’t imagine anyone really liking her.

"Running away?"

I don't turn around, even though Caesar's voice sends a familiar shiver down my spine. "Just getting some air."

He steps up beside me, his hands braced on the balcony railing. "Isabella can be… difficult. Ignore her. She means nothing."

"She’s a bitch.” I swallow hard, looking out over the gardens. “I guess I knew it would be like this, though.”

"She's jealous."

I finally look at him, surprised by the certainty in his voice. "Jealous? Of what?"

"Of this." He gestures between us. "Of the fact that I married you. That you have me.”

I snort, shaking my head and turning away. “I don’t have you. If she knew how fake this marriage is, that it’s going to be over as soon as everything is sorted out, she wouldn’t be jealous.”

“I’m not so sure that’s true.”

The soft timbre of his voice startles me, and I look at him again. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He shifts toward me, and suddenly the air crackles with tension.

He’s closer to me than he should be, and I'm suddenly very aware of how alone we are out here.

How good he looks in that suit, the jacket tugging at the swell of his muscled arms. How the moonlight catches the sharp angles of his face.

“Bridget.” He murmurs my name, and that shiver runs down my spine again.

I should move away. I should go back downstairs and face the rest of the party. I should not stand here on this balcony with my husband, a man who is becoming harder and harder to resist by the moment.

“Caesar—”

“Shh.” His hand captures my face, thumb pressing against my chin as he draws me in. “Just don’t think for a second.”

He leans in before I can gather my thoughts, and his mouth presses against mine.

It’s soft and full and warm, his other hand on the small of my back as he draws me against him, and for a moment I can’t think.

My senses are full of him—of the caress of his mouth, the scent of his cologne, the taste of wine on his lips.

His body, hard and muscled under the suit, the length of his hardening cock pressed against my thigh as he turns me so that my back is against the balcony.

“We won’t go further,” he murmurs against my lips, his hand sliding to my hip as he rocks into me with a groan. “Just let me kiss you, Bridget. Let me—”

His mouth presses against mine again, and I reach up to push him away, but my fingers curl into the front of his jacket instead, my body arching against his.

He’s the best kisser I’ve ever known, his mouth working magic against mine, his tongue sliding against the seam of my lips until it feels as if I have no choice but to let him in.

And the feeling of him against me—hard and thick and so overwhelmingly masculine…

I can feel my knees go weak, feel myself giving in to what I know I should be resisting.

For a moment, I forget where we are. I forget about Isabella and her cutting remarks, about the expectations and the scrutiny.

There's only Caesar and the way he makes me feel—desired, protected, needed.

A burst of laughter from the party below breaks the spell, and I pull back, breathing hard.

Caesar's eyes are dark with desire, his hair slightly mussed, curling from the humidity outside.

“Bridget.” My name on his lips is hoarse with need, and heat blooms through me.

I can feel my resistance slipping further, feel the temptation to touch him growing with every passing second.

"We should go back," I whisper, though I make no move to step away from him.

"Should we?" His voice is rough, and his hand is still on my hip, his thumb tracing small circles that make it hard to think.

“We’re missing the party.”

“Do you care?” His gaze holds mine, and if I say no, he’s going to know it’s a lie.

“You brought me here to show me off, not hide on a balcony.”

“They’ve seen you already.” His fingers gather up my skirt, and I know his promise not to go further is faltering, too.

If I don’t stop this now, we’re going to go too far.

I’m aching for him, my thin silk thong clinging to my skin from how wet I am, and I’m going to let him do something I’ll regret.

I can picture it already—Caesar on his knees with my leg over his shoulder and his mouth between my thighs, my hands clenching the railing as he bends me over it, his thick, pierced cock sliding inside of me the way I so desperately want it to right now.

“We should go back down,” I repeat, pushing past him. I don’t want to go back to the party, but I also don’t want to stay up here any longer, not with Caesar so close and the tension so thick between us. Not when I’m so close to begging for what I told him I’d never let him have.