Page 48 of Brutal Vows

I watch how he walks out of the bedroom and closes the door behind him, leaving me to digest his revelation alone.

Luca chose to tell me that he was the one who scrubbed those photos of me off the internet, which speaks volumes. He is a man with integrity. He doesn’t want to hide things between us or have secrets⁠—

I’m so fucked.

But he has seen those photos of me, taken on the sly while I was asleep. Erotic. Dirty by most people’s standards. Demeaning because they were sent out into the world.

I suck my lip, digesting this turn of events, and come to one conclusion: it’s unfair. He has seen almost all of me, but I haven’t seen anything of him.

And then, of course, the messed-up female in me wonders if he liked what he saw.

With a huff, I drop back to the pillows and kick off the covers, suddenly too hot with the idea of him looking at me, eyes lingering, with his soft touch as he caresses my skin. My hand reaches for the nightgown covering my legs and slides it up until cooler air flows over me. I stroke over my thigh, up to my hip, to the line that leads to my sex, my fingertips dipping deeper, meeting wet heat, and a slow throb ripples through me as I touch myself. As soon as I circle the piercing though, I pull my hand away.

There’s always been something about it, but now, there’s more of a shadow hanging over it than before. I’m married to another man. This isn’t his marking.

Fun as it is—was—I should get rid of the piercing but have no clue how. It’s not on the top of my to-do list, and I have enough to deal with. The last thing I need is to explain an unfortunate infection to a doctor. It is one way to get out of this tower though. Except they probably have someone who would do a home visit. There’ll be zero privacy.

I turn on my side, giving up. For once, my mind isn’t boiling over with thoughts of Masha, and Varya, and everyone I’m cut off from in Russia. All I can think of is Luca. The look on his face when he saw me on our wedding day. I thought the split second of shock was over my black dress, but it was way more than that.

It was those images of me. Realizing that he was marrying the same woman.

Does he still have them?

I sit bolt upright. Does he jerk off to memories of them?

This thought still haunts me when I drag myself out of bed the next morning. Instead of knocking on his door in the middle of the night, demanding he told me where they were, I chose to fret over it and do nothing.

I walk out of my bedroom, feeling like roadkill, and spot Luca behind the kitchen island with his back to me. My breath catches. Good God. He’s naked.

Well, not exactly. A white towel is slung around his neck, and as I take a proper look, I notice grey sweatpants, but they’re hanging low, accentuating the dimples above his perfect ass and the ropes of muscle lining his back. His broad shoulders, the way they pull and tug as he does something with the coffee machine. This isn’t helping at all.

He senses my presence and turns a bit, hands still busy with the coffee machine. His eyes light up. “Princess! Just in time for coffee.”

“Make it strong, will you,” I say, soaking him in.

He isn’t wet from a shower; that’s gym sweat. Why must this be such a turn on? I settle on a barstool, making sure my matching robe covers my boobs. The last thing I need is for him to home in on my breasts and realize my nipples are misbehaving. For good measure, I gather my hair to drape over my chest.

“Did you manage to fall asleep?” he asks over his shoulder, the concern back in his voice.

“Yes. Thanks for helping with Masha, it really helps.” And that’s no lie. Money could iron out a lot of issues on that side. For one, she can leave if she has to.

“No problem.”

He opens the fridge for the half-and-half and turns to finally give me the view I’ve been salivating for. The towel covers some of his chest, but those are blank spaces I have no problem coloring in. The rest of him is pure male perfection, the ridges of his six-pack, his navel, that V disappearing into his pants, and the gathering of hair that leads the eye south.

I force myself to look up as he leans across the counter to push the container my way.

“Those photos of me…” I start, then run out of courage.

“Yes?”

His eyes search my face, and the intensity of his gaze heats up my cheeks.

“Do you still have them?”

He laughs but it’s dry. “You know the answer, princess.”

“I don’t!” He smiles now, and it’s so tender, I want to cry. “Luca!”