Page 13 of A Betrothal So Bloody

The smile quirked on his lips is surprisingly sheepish. “Hello.”

I make a noise that’s meant to be a greeting but sounds more like his fingers are clasping my throat. After a beat of staring at him, I step back—meaning to put some distance between us, though he takes it as an invitation to enter.

He strolls inside with familiarity like it’s his own bedroom—which, to be fair, I suppose all the rooms in the villa are.

“I wasn’t sure you would still be awake,” he remarks. “The hour’s quite late.”

“Is it? I must have lost track of time.”

Dante pauses to scan my chambers, catching on the personal touches I’d added in the last weeks—of which there are very few. He shoots a glance back at me, a sparkle of intrigue beneath that pleasant smile. “That so? What’s been keeping you so enthralled that the hours slipped right past you?”

He’s peering out the arced window by the mahogany desk when his eyes fall upon the letter. Before I can stop him, he’s plucked it up to read. Shit. I hasten to his side and snatch it back from him, clutching it to my chest.

Though I have no reason to be frightened, my heart races. I had written nothing particularly damning that would reveal my true identity or my mission with Corvus. I never do. That is by design, in case he reads my mail before it’s sent off. All correspondence with Mother Superior is strictly encoded. All he’s glimpsed is the drawn-out laments of a lonely newlywed. But even if the marriage is a sham, I still find the capacity to be mortified.

“Do you just assume everything is at your disposal?” I snap. I’m not thinking of the mission—my irritation is all too genuine. “You may own this house, but my things are mine. Don’t you have any concept of privacy?”

“Of course I do,” Dante replies. “I just choose to ignore it.”

Are all men this pig-headed? I stuff the letter in the desk drawer, making a mental note to finish it elsewhere. When I face him again, I’m somewhat surprised to see him watching me still, a furrow in his brow.

“You believe our marriage to be a mistake?” he asks.

“Can you blame me?” I say coolly, adjusting the dressing gown to cover my chest. My throat tightens as though to stifle more bold words from spilling forth. I drop my eyes, melancholy. “Even with the circumstances centering on advantage… We’ve been married for nearly three weeks and are strangers still.”

“Well, it just so happens that I was craving the company of my wife tonight.” He steps closer, an unfamiliar softness beneath the constant veneer of charm when he speaks. Vulnerability—something I’ve yet to see on the lord. After nights of bracing myself, I am thoroughly disarmed.

Wife. The word doesn’t suit me. Not in the slightest.

Dante leans closer to lock eyes with me. “Will you indulge me, or should I leave before I make an idiot of myself?”

“No—I mean, of course,” I murmur, forcing a smile.

Does he mean…

He has to. What else could he mean? My heart is freshly aflutter, the jumpy rhythm different than before. This is it. The time has come, and I can barely get my legs to carry me to the four-poster bed.

I pull back the sheets and plush downy comforter. My mouth tastes terrible, suddenly bone dry. Will he initiate? Does he expect me to? Should I just get on my knees and let him guide me like Gia suggested?

Oh God, what if his cock is misshapen and I have to pretend otherwise?

I decide on nestling back against the pillows, sheets draped lightly around my waist, when I notice that Dante’s taking his time in joining me. While I’ve been making myself comfortable in bed, he’s moved to the larger window on the opposite wall, peering through the heavy curtains. His shoulders are taut as though expecting to spot something in the moonlight.

I frown. He almost looks… nervous.

“Is everything alright, signore?” I call.

Dante looks over his shoulder with a dry chuckle. “Are you hoping to make me beg you to stop those formalities?” He lets the curtains fall back into place, sauntering toward me. “I could be tempted.”

Whatever he was looking for outside, my letter to Mother Superior—it all melts from my mind. All I can feel is the weight of Dante’s attention on me as he climbs under the sheets beside me. The bed shifts slightly under him, pulling us closer. The scent of him hits me, grounding and sharp—intimate. This is real. Too real. Suddenly, the sprawling bedchamber is like a broomcloset, closing in around me.

“We could go for a walk,” I blurt—a desperate, transparent last resort. “If you’d prefer, that is. I know it’s late, but the weather is so nice this time of year, and I’ve yet to see all of the vineyards.”

Dante reaches over, wrapping a hand over both of mine. It’s only then, under his firm touch, that I realize I’d been trembling slightly.

“Relax. I’m not asking for carnal pleasures unless you’re offering, stellina.” He tilts his head at me.

His voice is velvety with that sly half-smile, but I’m surprised to hear something gentler there, too—something that makes me overlook that infuriating pet name that is more suitable for a damn child than a wife. My eyes jump to search his face before I can think better of it.