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The second heleaves the room, I crumble. My resolve breaks completely. I fall to the ground, shaking. I clamp a hand over my mouth to stifle the gasping sob. Quickly, I pull my dress back up. I hug myself, feeling ashamed and sick.
Great. Now he probably thinks I’m a prostitute or something. I’ve never done anything like that in my entire life; obviously. But my uncle’s words were pounding through my head: “Please him, Katrina.” “Remember what happened to his last wife.” “Make him happy before he has to ask it of you.”
I guess “making him happy before he asks” didn’t work so well, though.
With a hot, red face, I drag my luggage into the bedroom. I’ve lived in relative luxury my whole life. But this is beyond anything I’ve known. I slowly take in my new quarters. They’re pure opulence. The rooms are stunning, huge, and exquisitely decorated. I feel like I’ve been sold to a king; like I’m a princess. Maybe like I’mhisprincess.
But I know that’s not true. I’m not “his.” I’m nothing he wants, apparently. I saw how he looked at me in the meeting room. Like I was a nuisance. Like I was a business deal that was forced on him. I frown and look at my hands. I don’t know why that throws me. I don’t know why I’m upset by him not wanting me that way.
Do I want him? He’s handsome, of course. He’s far more than handsome, actually. He’s magnetically attractive, far older, and gorgeous. He carries strength and a hardness around with him. And he’s clearly not a man born into wealth and power like my uncle and my cousin Sasha. Micheal looks like he’s fought the world to get this house, and his position in the Scaliami family.
After I explore a little, I unpack my bags into the walk-in closet. I run the shower and get in to try and slow my mind and my nerves. Afterwards, I comb my hair out and slip into a robe. I look through my luggage for a book to read. Instead, my fingers close around a familiar shape. I smile and pull the locket from the bag. My uncle hates me wearing it. So it’s usually hidden away. But my uncle isn’t here.
I slip the thin chain around my neck. The locket sits low, between my breasts. I smile at the feel of it. But suddenly, there’s a knock at the door to my quarters. My smile evaporates, and I stiffen. I walk quietly over to it. “Yes?”
“Katrina.”
Instantly, I tremble. It’s his voice—Micheal’s voice. And my name coming from that gruff and yet soft mouth makes me tingle all over. I know it shouldn’t. I know I should fear this man, not grow warm in secret places when he says my name.
I swallow dryly. I open the door. “Yes sir?” He stiffens, and I blush. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t…” he growls deeply. His eyes sweep over me. I blush and grip my robe, pulling it tight and closed around myself. His gaze hesitates on my chest. I don’t have to look down to know it’s that my nipples are hard and pressed to the thin robe. His gaze makes me tremble.
I should feel exposed. But I feel… wanted. In spite of what just happened before. His eyes seem harder this time. I feel desired in a way I’ve never felt desired before. Men have looked at me, of course. Pavel has certainly looked at me with a sort of hunger before. But the glint in Micheal’s eyes doesn’t make me tremble or cringe.
It makes me warm.
“Don’t call me that,” he grunts.
I look down. “I’m sorry.”
“Katrina.”
His hand touches my chin. I gasp quietly as he tilts my head up. His eyes hold mine fiercely, without blinking. The heat I felt before seems to spread thickly through my core.
“It wasn’t an admonishment,” Micheal growls. “It was just telling you that you don’t have to call me that.”
“I’m used to it, I guess.”
He frowns. “What, calling men sir?”
I instantly blush deeply. “Just my uncle. I don’t…”
I want to tell him that I’ve barely been around any other men but my uncle and cousin and the disgusting Pavel in years. But I realize that’s weird. I realize that would make me sound like a freak of some kind. A shut in, maybe.
“I won’t say it again,” I say quickly.
Micheal sighs. “I’m not… Katrina, I’m not telling you what you can and can’t do. This is not a rule. You won’t be in trouble if you say it. I’m just saying you can call me Micheal.”
I smile. Micheal. I say it a few times in my head, and I like the way it sounds.
“Micheal,” I say out loud.
“What happened just now…”
“I’m sorry,” I blurt. My face reddens.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” he growls. “And you donotneed to do that.” Again, I feel that strange version of disappointment. Like I’m dismayed that he doesn’t want me.
