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Think quick; it’s all I have.
Men like Nico, they like submission and being praised like gods.
“Nico, I don’t want him. I married you. You are my husband, and I will obey anything you ask me to,” I tell him as I reach out and ever so slightly touch his shoulder. It’s taut, tense. “Please, just let him go, and I will never speak about him again. And if he dares to reach out to me, I will tell you. I will not hide secrets from you. Please, my boss. My husband. As your wife, please respect this one thing I ask of you,” I plead.
No matter how angry I am at Damian, I loved…lovehim. And I don’t want to see him dead because of me.
“Leave the room. Now. You come near what’s mine again, and I will watch the life drain from you. Inevergrant fucking mercy,” he growls. “Run.”
The threat is so imminent even I feel it, and without one look at me, Damian leaves, and I release a deep breath as tears threaten to fall.
The intensity within that moment was far too much for me to take.
“You think I’m stupid. I know that was all an act. But clearly you value his life more than I will allow. You won’t play me. You understand?” he asks, gripping my chin in his hand.
“It was nothing. I told him to leave. He wouldn’t listen.” I glare up at him. “Besides, I don’t have to explain my life to you. I put on the ‘bride smitten by the mafia king’ act. Now get your hands off me.” I push away his arm, and I move, but he is on me faster than I can make it out of the room. Slamming the door shut next to my head, he closes me in. My breath catches, and beads of sweat form as he cages me with his entire body.
“On the bed, now,” he demands, and I snap my head to the side and see I’m within inches of his. So close I can smell the whiskey.
“No, I’m not having sex with you. You can’t—”
“We aren’t having sex. I’m going to teach you obedience and what happens when you don’t take my threats seriously. As if they’re empty.” He gesture slightly in the air around him.
“You can’t treat me like a fucking dog. I will make your life hell, Nico.”
Grabbing my upper arm with enough force to get my attention, he moves us to the bed. I sit, and he stands back, removing his jacket, his holster, then slowly unbuttoning his shirt. Each button reveals tight, smooth skin that I hate to admit is attractive. Not just attractive, but truly erotic. He looks like a god among men.
There are some marks on his chest, and the more he exposes, I can see each ab, oblique, and muscle in all their glorious definition. Removing his crisp-white shirt completely, he towers over me, looking down on me. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a knife, and suddenly I’m not looking at his body. I focus on the blade shining in his hand.
Is he going to hurt me?
What is he going to do with that blade?
“I-I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. Please don’t hurt me.” I hate that he’s instilling fear in me. A stranger. The scariest stranger. The man I hate but am married to now. The fact of the matter is, I’m at his mercy.
“I may have no respect for most men and will kill for even a wrong look, but I will not hurt you. Real men don’t stoop low enough to hurt women.”
Lifting his left arm, he takes the blade and begins to drag it along the taut bicep.
“What the hell are you doing!” I try to stand, but he growls at me.
“I told you to stay away from him. I don’t have to love you, Emelia, to own you. You belong to me now. You think this is crazy? You don’t want to see what will happen if you talk to him again.” Moving the knife away, he wipes off the blood, and that’s when I see he carved an E into his arm. I’m stunned silent, shocked, and truly disturbed. He moves to the bed, throws back the comforter, and wipes the blood on the sheet.
That’s when it hits me.
That’s how he’s going to present the sheets.
Relief floods me, even though I just watched a sociopath carve my initial into his skin.
Why?
How can someone look at ownership so animalistically?
I have nothing to offer. I’m not someone he knows. Definitely not someone he loves. Why are mafia men so beyond the definition of psychotic?
I gulp when he pulls out some sort of kit from his dress pants. Opening it, he pulls out a band-aid and covers up the wound.
“There. Now we can present the sheets, have our first dance, and leave. I will be having yourex-loverremoved from our wedding,” he emphasizes, and I implore more.
