Her breath hitched. Her eyes dropped to my mouth, then back up.
“Lorenzo—”
“Say my name again.” My voice was hoarse. “I dare you.”
She swallowed.
And then she slammed the door in my face.
The wood shook in its frame. The lock clicked.
I stood there, my hand still raised, my chest heaving.
I could break it down. I could shove through, pin her to the bed, remind her exactly who she belonged to now.
But that wasn’t how I wanted our first night to go.
I pressed my palm flat against the door instead, my forehead following a moment later.
“Zara.”
Silence.
“I’m not going to apologize for wanting you.”
More silence.
“I will apologize for not warning you about my father. That was… a miscalculation.”
A pause. Then, softly: “Go away, Lorenzo.”
I laughed—a low, bitter sound. “That’s not going to happen.”
I heard her moving around, heard the rustle of sheets, the thump of a pillow being rearranged.
I stood there for a long moment, my eyes fixed on the wood grain, my mind already working.
The door stayed shut for exactly four minutes.
Four minutes of me standing in the hallway, fists clenched, jaw tight, blood pounding hot in my veins. I counted every second. I felt every inch of the distance between us—thin wood, a lock, and her stubborn fucking pride.
Then I heard her footsteps. Soft. Pacing. Stopping just on the other side.
She was listening. Waiting to see if I’d leave.
I didn’t.
Instead, I pressed my palm flat against the door, leaned in until my forehead touched the cool surface, and let my voice drop low—dangerous, controlled, the kind of tone that made men twice my size step the fuck back.
“Open the door, Zara.”
Silence. Then, quieter, strained: “Go away, Lorenzo.”
“You’re my wife.”
“A piece of paper doesn’t?—”
“It means everything.” I cut her off, the words rough, almost a growl. “That piece of paper says you’re mine. It says I get to tear down every single wall you’ve built. It says I get to have you—every part of you—whether you’re ready or not.”
