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"You’re not eating," he reminds me, and I turn to my food. I manage to finish half of what’s on my plate before I push the remaining in his direction.
"You’ve barely eaten anything." He scowls.
"I’ve had enough."
"One more bite," he coaxes me.
"But—"
"Go on." He picks up some of the pasta with his fork and offers it to me. Holding his gaze, I open my mouth, and he feeds me. To anyone watching this scene, we’d come across as a conventional couple, with the husband so concerned about his wife’s well-being that he’s making sure to feed her.
Only, I know how fake all of this is. He brings another forkful to my mouth, and I turn my head. "Don’t," I say through gritted teeth, "please don’t fake your solicitude."
"I am truly worried about your well-being, and you know that, Flower."
"And please, can you stop calling me by that nickname?" I jump up to my feet. "Jesus, why do we have to continue with this wedding, when you know that it’s my fault that you got shot." I begin to pace—back, forth, back—as I wring my hands. "I can’t go on like this, Christian. Especially when you are pretending to be all nice and caring toward me."
"I am not pretending, Aurora," he says in a gentle tone. "Or, let’s back up. I am not strictly pretending."
"Huh?" I turn on him, "What do you mean?"
"A part of me wants to push you against those windows, so your tits are pressed against the pane, and fuck you from behind so every time I plunge inside you, you scream so loudly that our guests will hear you."
"Oh…" I shiver; my nipples bead. "And the other part of you—"
"Knows that it’s best that I wait here with my arms across my chest and hear you out, so I finally understand what it is that is bothering you so much."
"If I tell you, you’ll hate me, Christian. And I couldn’t bear that. Don’t you understand?"
"Try me." He pours himself more wine, then tops up my glass and offers it to me.
I draw in a breath, then march over to him. I grab my glass and drain it. The alcohol hits my stomach, and I cough. "That’s good wine," I sputter.
"The best," he agrees. "So, what is it that you want to tell me?"
44
Aurora
Am I doing this? Am I really gonna do this? I blow out a breath, then grip the edges of the table. "When I was in London, after I had completed my residency and started working in a hospital, I was on my way home from work one day, when…he approached me."
Christian’s face doesn’t change expression. His shoulders stay relaxed. He’s unbuttoned his tux, and the bowtie he wore earlier is untied. His hair is slightly disheveled, and that only adds to his appeal. He looks sexy and yummy, and handsome in a way that makes me want to reach over and push away the strand of hair that has fallen over his forehead. He raises his glass and has a sip. For all purposes, he seems calm and composed, except... A nerve throbs at his temple. Shit, that’s not a good sign, is it?
The silence stretches. I reach for the bottle of wine, top up my glass, and take another sip. "He asked me to spy on the Sovranos."
Christian’s fingers tighten around the stem of his glass. "Go on," he says in a soft voice.
A shiver runs up my spine. "You have to understand, I didn’t have a choice."
"You always have a choice."
"Not in this." I gaze into the depths of the glass. "He told me if I didn’t do as he said, he’d kill me."
A wave of anger seems to roll off of his shoulders and crash into me. I gasp, then raise my glass to my mouth again. My hand trembles so hard that some of the wine spills over the side.
He reaches over, pries the glass from my grasp, and places it on the table. “Any more alcohol, and you’ll be drunk."
"Sounds like a plan."
