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“We’re getting married tomorrow, in the morning,” I whisper into her ear.
“What? Tomorrow?” She squeaks.
“Yes. You’re gonna wake up in the morning, put on your wedding dress, and walk your sweet –not so virgin ass– downstairs and become my wife.”
“Is my father going to come?”
“No. No, guests will be here. It will be just us.”
There is a long moment of silence, and I’m almost sad that there isn’t another fight. The idea of subduing her with sex again makes my cock harden once more.
“Why did you even want to marry me if my father really did kill your mother?” Her question makes everything evaporate, and all over again, I’m on edge. It’s too close to the truth. I don’t want her to find out, not yet.
“I wanted you from the moment I saw you at your mother’s funeral.” It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either.
“And it doesn’t bother you that I’m his daughter?”
“No, I don’t care where you came from. I only care that you are with me now. You’re a Moretti now, my wife, my queen, the woman who will carry and birth our heirs.”
Another moment of silence stretches on before she interrupts the silence with another question.
“Are you still planning on killing my father when you find him?”
“Yes.”
“How can you expect me to say my vows if I know this? If I know the man that will be my husband, plans to kill my father?”
“I don’t care how you do it, but you will do it, nevertheless. Two things have never been truer. You will become my wife tomorrow morning, and your father will die at my hands. When? I don’t know, but it will happen, and if you do anything to try and stop me…” I don’t have to threaten her further. She knows what will happen if she doesn’t do what I want. I wish I didn’t have to force her hand. I wish she would simply say her vows because she wants to.
The only thought that eases my mind is knowing that one day, she will cherish our vows. She will understand eventually that this is the right thing to do.
She will see that I was only doing this for us, for her.
Her father doesn’t love her. If he did, he wouldn’t have given her to me.35ElenaStaring at my reflection, a feeling of surrealness washes over me. I thought Julian was drunk when he came into the bedroom last night and said we were getting married, but as it turns out, he wasn’t drunk, nor lying. Here I stand, in a wedding dress, and I’m about to get married to a man who bought me for ten million dollars. A man, I foolishly thought I could love. He knows nothing of love. This is all revenge, that’s all it is. He doesn’t want me the way I want him. It’s a façade, a mirage. I keep telling myself maybe he’ll forget about finding my father, but I know better. He won’t stop till he’s dead.
“Are you ready?” Julian calls through the closed bathroom door, and my thoughts slip away like grains of sand through an hourglass.
“Yes,” I yell back at him. Carefully, I step toward the door and open it just enough to peek through the crack. “Isn’t it bad luck to see the bride in her dress?”
“I didn’t see you in your dress on our first wedding day, and you saw how well that worked out.” He purses his lips.
I guess he’s right. What could possibly happen that hasn’t already?
Pulling the door open all the way, Julian’s entire body comes into view. He’s standing a few feet away from me in a fitted tux. He looks sharp, roguish, and dangerous. My mouth goes dry, and I swallow my tongue, afraid that it might slip out like a dog’s when it pants. His sea-blue eyes take me in from head to toe, drinking the image before him up.
“You look… breathtaking.” He licks his lips, and I’m taken aback by how genuine his compliment is. There’s a kind of adoration in his tone that I’ve never heard before. It’s especially surprising after all the things he told me last night and the abrupt way he left and returned to tell me we were getting married.
Sometimes, I think Julian has a split personality. Or maybe he is just a monster inside, and this caring version of him is a façade. Either way, I’m about to marry him. Marry him and all of his sides, the dark one that’s front and center and the kind one that no one ever gets a glimpse of.
“Come. Father Petro is waiting for us,” he offers me his arm. I close the distance between us and loop my arm into his and shiver when my hand brushes against his.
