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Jerk. I stick out my tongue at his retreating back, then gasp in surprise when he glances at me over his shoulder. "Also, don’t be late tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"The Christmas gathering that Karma is organizing," he glances at me over his shoulder, "it’ll be our first official outing as a couple."
I’d rather slit my wrists. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it down.
"Seven pm, tomorrow." He looks me up and down, "I’ll send you some dresses to try on."
"No thank you; I have my own dresses."
"You mean those rags that you wear."
"They are not rags," I protest.
"They are not fit for the future wife of a Mafia consigliere."
Right.
"And make sure your bags are packed; you’ll be moving in with me after."
Turning, he walks away.
5
Aurora
The tomorrow that Christian was talking about turns out to be the delayed Christmas get-together that Karma and Michael are throwing for the clan. With Xander’s death, Christmas itself wasn’t celebrated. And while in most Italian families, the period of mourning would last almost up to a year, it seems the Sovranos have decided to go ahead with the celebrations, perhaps because they want to commemorate his life instead of mourning his passing? It’s a sentiment I whole-heartedly approve of.
I had contemplated making Christian wait when he walked into the house promptly at seven pm. Only, he didn’t give me a chance. He walked up the stairs and into my bedroom. When I protested, he told me to get used to it. What a dick!
Now he takes in my reflection, and his mouth falls open. Like, literally, he opens and shuts his mouth, and no words emerge. I turn to face him, place my hand on my hip, and allow him to sweep his gaze from the top of my auburn curls to my Gucci dress to my feet clad in the Ferragamo’s he sent me.
Yeah, so they’re borrowed feathers, but what the hell? Given what I’m going to put myself through over the next thirty days, it’s the least I can do—embrace the designer wear he’s so eager to shower on me. Only, he probably paid for the dress in blood, but that’s something I can’t afford to think of. Not when I need to make sure that I play my role so well that he doesn’t suspect I’m looking for a way out.
So, I permit him to look his fill, noting his heavy-lidded gaze, the way his body stills as he sweeps his gaze up my body and back to my face. He stares at my mouth, and stares, and stares. Goose bumps shiver across my skin, and the blood thuds at my temples. A pulse flares to life between my legs, and I want to squeeze my thighs together, but I stop myself. No way am I allowing him to see the effect he has on me. It’s bad enough that my nipples have beaded into pinpoints of pain, that my cheeks are flushed, and that I can hear the blood pumping in my ears.
I bite down on my lower lip, and his chest rises and falls. I tip up my chin, and he raises his gaze to mine. The silence stretches for a beat, another. I will not look away. Will not. My nerves stretch until I’m sure they’re going to snap.
"Well?" I finally burst out. "What do you think?"
And why does his opinion matter anyway, hmm?
His lips curl, and he looks me up and down once more, his glance more cursory this time. "You’ll do," he drawls.
"What the—!" I flush. "How dare you—?"
"Speak the truth?" He smirks, and anger sears my veins. My fingers tingle and hell, if I don’t want to slap him and wipe that self-satisfied expression off of his face, but I don’t. Instead, I tip up my chin and brush past him, in my six-inches high stilettos.
"Fuck you," I hiss as I flounce past, then gasp when he grips my wrist and tugs. I lose my balance and fall against him. The hard planes of his chest dig into my upper arm.
He yanks my arm behind my back and pulls me into him. "What did you say?" he says in that low mean voice that arrows straight to my belly and coils in my core.
"N-nothing." I swallow.
"Lying, Flower?"
"Always," I manage to choke out, "and especially to you."
