Everything seems to be trying to reboot; it just can’t seem to figure out how to do it all at once. It’s disorienting, like flipping the power back on after a blackout, except it’s still foggy outside.
The first thing I’m aware of is the vibrations beneath my body. The low hum of an engine that seems far deeper and louder than a car.
A plane.
I’m on a plane.
The second thing I’m aware of is a body next to mine.
It smells like amber, which is nice. Amber is nice, it’s safe. It’s ballroom dancing and giggles on my mother’s knee as we make faces in her vanity mirror.
Only this amber is from someone else.
Through cracked eyes, I can make out a jaw. A strong jaw. A nice, strong jaw. With stubble. Dark and thick, either several days old or groomed to appear so.
It suits him and his pretty face. His pretty, manly face.
I’ve met men before. Obviously. But men usually have better things to do, like grovel at my father’s feet or address my father when they’re talking to me. My body has always belonged to the Cartel, and men have learned not to covet it.
There were boys at my college, of course. Lots of them, and lots of them interested in the bioengineering major with the grace of a ballroom dancer who liked riding horses and rejecting romantic advances.
But it was always important that I stayed a virgin. The only reason I could attend college in the first place was because I swore I would remain pure during my entire tenure. It was expected. It’s always been expected.
Because one day, I’d need to be married. Anything less than purity would be a disgrace.
That day would have come a lot sooner had the man next to me not kidnapped me when he did.
It’s strange looking at him now through my delirium without the constraints of anger or my apparent lack of self-preservation.
He has very nice arms.
They seem to tense a little under my gaze. It’s almost funny.
Actually, it is funny. I think I should laugh.
“Jesus Christ,” someone says. This makes me laugh a little harder.
I’m still laughing when I feel a slight prick in my neck.
Then, all the progress my body made in an attempt to wake up quickly reverts, and I’m drawn back into the darkness.
The next time I wake up, it’s the hum of the car engine that pulls me from the haze of sleep. This time, I wait until I’m positively certain my body is entirely functional before opening my eyes.
I blink hard, my eyes adjusting to the golden light spilling through the window. The sharp ache in my shoulders makes me wonder just how long I’ve been asleep as I right myself.
I look out the car window and blink again.
It’s like I’ve woken up in a postcard.
The town before us is tucked into the hillside and bathed in the soft glow of the late morning. Sunlight warms the terracotta roofs and glints off the cobblestone streets below.
The buildings lean together like old friends whispering secrets, painted in muted shades of ochre and dusty rose. Some shutters are painted bright green, while others are thrown open to reveal flower boxes overflowing with geraniums and lavender.
“Where…” I cough to clear my wretched throat. “Where are we?”
Dante glances in the rearview at me, face set in stone. “This is Montecroce. The family has graciously offered to host us, so, for the love of God, do not begin your hysterics again.”
There’s a twinge in my neck that does the threatening for him.
