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My goal is to break through Roman’s barriers, to see beneath his mask, but I’m starting to worry that in the process, I’m crumbling too. Each time he kisses me, I want more. I drift to sleep each night thinking of his hands on my body, and his possessive words in my ears.
I’d think, knowing a man for less than a week, it would be impossible to have the beginnings of feelings for him. But every single day has felt like an entire week. His presence in the house, having dinner with him, the inability to ever fully escape him, is wearing me down.
I’m just unsure where it’s all leading. I knew this was a dangerous game, but am I willing to pay whatever price is owed?
Roman’s large hand covers both of mine. I glance at him, surprised.
“You’re fidgeting. Care to tell me what’s on your mind?”
I study him for a full ten seconds. “Do you actually care, or are you asking out of politeness? Never mind, I know the answer to that question, since you do absolutely nothing out of politeness.”
Althoughcaringisn’t exactly one of his personality traits either.
A rare chuckle escapes him. “You’re quite observant.”
How can I not be, when everything about him demands my attention. He’s impossible to ignore. Especially since we’ve been cooped up in the same, albeit massive, house for days. Avoiding each other should be easier. It’s not.
“Why do you care what I’m thinking about?”
“Because half the time, I’m sure you’re plotting my demise,” he drawls.
“And the other half of the time?” As soon as I ask the question, I know exactly what his answer will be. Heat creeps up my neck and washes across my face, all the way to my hairline.
“You and I both know the answer to that, principessa.” His gaze darkens and the air around us grows thick with lust.
I clear my throat—twice. “I was thinking about how much time we spend in the house together. I feel like I’ve gotten to know you somewhat well in a relatively short amount of time.”
“Hm. I suppose we’ve moved beyond being mere acquaintances.” His hand squeezes mine in my lap.
I scrutinize him for a moment. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m wondering what it is that you want?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said before that you grew up with the expectation of an arranged marriage. If that weren’t the case, what would you have done with your life? Did you ever have any dreams or desires of a different future?” His intense gaze holds mine. “If you could do anything, what would it be?”
I swallow thickly, turning my head to gaze out the window again, as I consider his question. Once, I had dreamed of a different life. But people like me don’t get to make those types of choices. Our lives are not our own, they’re part of a legacy. We don’t think in terms of individuals. We think in terms of generations.
It’s all about what we leave behind for those who come after. Wealth. Connections. Alliances. A solid foundation in which to flourish.
“When I was twelve, we went to The Metropolitan Museum of Art and I fell in love instantly. I wanted to do something in the art world. Either work at a museum, one day become a curator, or even open my own art gallery. I was kind of obsessed for a while.”
Before reality kicked in. Mama had to put it to me bluntly for the first time: I would never have a career. My future was as a wife and mother, to be at my husband’s beck and call, and that was it.
I spent two days in my room crying over my shattered dreams. That was the last time I dared to reach outside of the world I was born into.
Roman’s thumb caresses my wrist. “I can see you working in that field.”
I glance over at him, completely taken off guard. “You can?”
“Sure. You’re a people person, you have a strong personality, and I’m beginning to suspect you have a sharp mind.”
I laugh. That’s probably Roman’s idea of a compliment. Then something occurs to me. “You have a huge house, but no art on the walls. Why?”
His thumb stills. “Because I don’t particularly like art. It’s too emotional for my tastes, and a distraction.”
“That’s exactly why I love it.”
