Page 12 of Jealous Vows

“Don’t call me that.I’m not a doll,” she says in a breathy voice.

I chuckle and take her wrist.Her expression sours, but I start down the block before she opens her mouth.

She digs in her heels when I reach for the door to one of New York City’s most popular high-end clothing stores.

“I can’t go in there,” she states.

“You can,” I reply.

She sighs and tugs at her wrist.

“Okay, sure, physically I can.What I mean is Iwon’tgo in there,” she hisses.

“Why?”

“I don’t have any money,” she says through gritted teeth.

“I do,” I say.

She huffs and twists hard enough I let go for fear of bruising her wrist.There’s nothing I can do about the scrapes and bruises already marring her skin, but the healthier she appears when she attends Mario’s wedding, the better.The more drastic her transformation after I whisk her away from his wedding, the more fulfilling my revenge.

“So?It’s not my money,” she gripes.“Even ifZio—”

“Do you really think your uncle would allow me to bring you to his wedding in a dress from a secondhand store?He’d never forgive me if I didn’t buy you the very best,” I quip.

She hesitates.

Part of me longs to toss her over my shoulder and haul her straight to a hotel room, but playing with her this way has its own appeal too, so I wait for her to decide whether we head into the boutique or to the nearest hotel.

She gives the cutest little growl and rubs her face before speaking.

“Okay, fine.I won’t argue anymore, except I haven’t showered in—” she looks down at herself and grimaces before lifting her gaze back to mine “—today.I haven’t showered today and after traveling and—”

I refuse to admit her shame reminds me of my younger self.Dumped on the streets as a kid with no way to take care of myself planted the kernels of my rage, but not before shame dug its talons into my soul.

“Come with me,bambolina.I’ll take care of you,” I say.

She doesn’t balk when I wrap my arm around her shoulders and tuck her against my side.Her verbal fumble tells me it may have been much longer than a day since she showered, but she smells of cinnamon and vanilla, without a hint of body odor.I long to bury my face in her hair and lick the delicate column of her throat.To distract myself, I pull out my phone and send a location pin to my driver for the nearest bistro.

Sienna refuses a meal but accepts a fancy granola bar from the shelf and a protein shake from the refrigerator.I wonder at the oddity as she rips open the packaging and nibbles on the snack.

She also refused the tray on the plane.

If she’s suffering from an eating disorder, I’ll do whatever it takes to set her straight so she’ll live as long as possible and be the perfect vessel for my revenge.

With my resolve wrapped tightly around my heart, I wait with the patience of a hunter with its prey in his crosshairs as she eats.By the time she finishes, my driver sits parallel parked at the curb.

I open the back door for her and help her into her seat before walking around to the back.I open the trunk, pull out my duffel bag, and drop into the seat behind the driver.

He pulls away from the curb without a word.Sienna sits in silence with her hands in her lap and her attention split between the inside of the vehicle and the busy streets.

My driver pulls up to the valet but jumps out and waves the attendant away.Sienna reaches for her door handle.I grab her thigh.She freezes with her arm outstretched.

“Wait for me,bambolina,” I command.

“Only if you stop calling me that ridiculous name,” she snaps.

Surprise raises my brows.She’s been so docile the last few minutes I forgot the spunk she showed during our first meeting.I morph my expression to one of patient humor and speak as though to an errant child.