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“Why is my smart girl suddenly asking stupid questions?”
That voice is back, the same one he uses when he touches me, the dark, low cadence that makes me listen and cling to every word. The order is all wrong this time—Salvatore has kept his hands to himself, but at this tone, my body responds like a trained dog. The unresolved ache from this morning stirs again. He continues.
“No, I don’t want a fucking apology. I want you to do better.” The criticism grinds salt against a wound, the sting harsher than I expect. “I want you to tell me that you understand your role here, that you can be what I need you to be. That you’re a capable wife.”
I can’t let him keep playing these games, twisting my urge to please him up with his dark vision for my very real future.
“Are you surprised that a woman you randomly kidnapped isn’t perfect bride material? I didn’t ask for this, and I’m not your wife.”
His silence weighs heavily.
“Get on the bed, Contessa.”
“…Why? What are you going to do?”
He says nothing. Nervousness creeps into my stomach.
In all the many times that I’ve questioned him, Salvatore has made one thing clear—he won’t repeat himself. I fold. I take myself to his bed, where he motions for me to lie down. He stands at the end of it and downs his drink. The alcohol still burns in his voice when he says,
“Open your legs for me.”
I know better than to hesitate a second time. I spread my legs, drawing the edge of my dress up around my thighs.
“…Are you going to do it again? What you did this morning?”
I’m terrified he’ll repeat it, that he’ll leave me aching on the edge all night, with sparse sleep and hot dreams of him. I can’t stand the threat of it. If anything will send me mad in this house, that will.
Salvatore ignores my question. He doesn’t even touch me, standing back and letting the vulnerability sink in as I lie here with my legs apart.
“Further,” he demands, “with your hands under your knees.” It’s a humiliating position as I stretch myself open for him, pull my thighs into a split. I’m embarrassed that Salvatore hasn’t laid a hand on me, but my pussy already drips for him.
“Look at you. I’ve had my hands and mouth all over that virgin cunt,” he growls. “You spread it open for me whenever I tell you to, and you like it. You beg me to make you come like it’s your fucking prom night. You better be my wife, Contessa, because if you’re not—well, what the fuck are you? My slut? My whore? Is that what you want to be? Just another pussy in a long list?”
“…No,” I gasp, my arousal stealing my voice.
“Then what are you?”
My mouth opens around a word I don’t know. I don’t know what I am to him. His victim? His pet? His obsession? None of them fit.
“Yours,” I gasp.
“My what?”
I shake my head. I don’t know.
“I’m—”
My gaze wavers, caught in his intensity. God, he hasn’t even touched me.
“I’m your good girl,” I whisper.
His breath leaves him in a growl.
Salvatore takes me by one ankle and drags me down the bed like I weigh nothing, bringing me to him covers and all. For a terrifying moment, I can’t tell if I’ve given him the right or wrong answer.
“Does my good girl deserve a second chance?” he asks.
I nod desperately.
