Page 107 of Bene

She walked a fine line living with him.

Every single day.

“I am—I also have to continuously stir this chocolate because stopping at all will make it burn at the bottom, and the glaze won’t be nearly as good, Mario.”

“You can’t talk and stir at the same time?”

Vanna’s gaze narrowed on the swirling chocolate under her whisk. Not that he ever cared about her cooking unless he was eating it, but it was clear the man just didn’t appreciate or understand what went in to cooking a dish like this.

“Do you want cake later, or not?” she asked.

Mario sighed, coming to stand directly behind her. So fucking close, in fact, that she could feel his hot breath on the back of her neck. As if that wasn’t uncomfortable enough, his fingers drifted over the column of her neck, and he leaned in closer. He always did that. Invaded her personal space whether he was wanted, or not.

Then, he pressed a kiss to the side of her throat.

Vanna would vomit.

Soon.

If he didn’t stop …

“Easy,” he murmured at her stiffness. “Imagine how good we could be together, if you would just let it happen.”

His hand skimmed up the side of her body, tracing her curves with his fingertips, but not appreciating them. No, his touch didn’t want to enjoy having her, but rather … to own her. That was why she felt nothing when he touched her. She would rather take a short dive off a high cliff than be living in this man’s home, sleeping in the bed across the hall from his, and playing pretend house until their wedding.

Except this was her life, now.

Hell.

And it would be her life long after she married this bastard, too. That much became painfully clear over the couple of weeks she’d been forced to be here living with Mario. He controlled everything from the clothes that she could wear to how she spent her days, and far more with no end in sight.

He tried to be nice—sometimes. He tried to make her think he cared—when he wanted to make an effort. Then, he went back to the asshole. The same person he always was.

Vanna wasn’t stupid.

He only did that shit when he was trying to get something out of her. And for the last several days, he kept wanting the same thing. For her to fuck him, or at the very least, give him something physical. He seemed to be convinced that if the two of them jumped into bed together, it would change the fact that she was only there with him because she had no other options.

If she left, he would chase her.

If he caught her, he would kill her.

If she tried to get help … that wouldn’t end well, either.

And unfortunately, she didn’t even have the money to run. What little money remained in the trust fund her father left for her after his death was practically gone. She’d used it to live on from the time she was eighteen and put her through college—bought her penthouse that was now on the market, and likely wouldn’t sell until after she married Mario, who would then take the money from the sale.

She had nothing.

At his fucking mercy.

The bastard knew it, too.

“Come on, Vanna,” he said lowly in her ear. “It could be so good.”

“No, it’ll be you fucking a dry hole, and me wishing it was over before it even begins.”

Okay.

So, maybe she should have kept those thoughts in her head. Thing was, she had been tired of this game a long time ago, and now that she had clearly lost here, she no longer cared what happened when she opened her mouth and told the truth.