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I didn’t know how long we sat there, me tuning out everything except feeling the hot tea fill my mouth and go down my throat every time I took a sip from the cup.
But it was when I felt that tightening on the back of my neck once more, prickles along my arms, that I snapped back to reality and straight up my spine, glancing around the small cafe but not seeing anyone focused on us.
Tomasso stood in one corner of the room, his hands behind his back, his expression stern. Although he looked easy-going for the most part, I’d known Tomasso my entire life. I’d seen him beat a man on our front lawn simply for making an innocent comment about my mother’s beauty.
I glanced over at Edoardo, who stood by the front entrance, taking the same stance as Tomasso. He was staring right at me and I felt this cold chill race down my spine. And although I should’ve looked away I couldn’t, our gazes locked, his face so unforgiving and hard that it was as if I were staring at a lifeless husk.
I was the one to break eye contact and focused on the inside of my teacup, the tan colored liquid inside now only filling a fourth of the ceramic, dark sediment scattered along the bottom.
I still felt that heavy presence but ignored it. I could chalk up all of this, every nuance and feeling, every intrusive, fearful thought I had, all the anxiety, tension, anger and sadness that was consuming me since I found out about the arranged marriage, was slowly starting to crash in on me.
“So when’s the date set?” Maria asked and I glanced up to see her pick up her espresso, taking a sip from it as she stared at my mother. “Spring of next year? That’s when all the girls seem to be setting their wedding dates.”
When my mother didn’t answer right away I looked at her then. Seeing how my mother was picking at her linen napkins and shifting slightly on her chair told me everything I needed to know. She was nervous.
“We’re looking at something earlier.”
The way she was acting after Maria asked when the wedding date was, and her physical response, told me it seemed like everyone in my family knew when I was getting married except me.
And her evasive answer had dread settling in.How early are we talking?
But I knew better than to ask in front of anyone. Not that my mother would tell me even if we were alone. She may love me and want to protect and shield me from the horrors of our world as best she could, but she’d been beaten into submission for so long by my father that her loyalties—her fears—would lean toward him. Always.
And telling me anything he hadn’t approved would be going against Marco Bianchi.
Even to the woman who birthed me I came second.
5
Nikolai
I’d followed Amara after they left the Bianchi house half an hour ago. I parked across the street and watched them go into the boutique twenty minutes ago.
And I was still sitting here in my rental, a cigarette to my lips, and my cock harder than granite.
And all because of Amara Bianchi, my soon-to-be, barely legal wife who was fucking gorgeous.
To be honest, I’d been fucking surprised at how beautiful she was. Because Marco Bianchi wasn’t exactly a looker, not with his squat stature, overweight girth, and the arrogance that made him even uglier.
But once I’d seen Amara step out of her house, an older version of her following behind, I’d instantly felt the stab of lust at the sight of my eighteen year old fiancé. She had one lithe, tight little body, long black hair that brushed along her waist with every step she took, and then there was her flawless olive skin tone.
My dick had been hard since then, stabbing against the zipper of my jeans, and the fucker hadn’t gone down this entire time. I hadn’t seen her since she walked into the storefront, my fingers itching to reach down and pull my dick out and jerk off just to ease the pressure in my balls.
Her being gorgeous as fuck would sure as hell make this marriage far more bearable.
I brought the cigarette back to my lips and inhaled, pulled it away to exhale, then flicked the ash out the crack in the window. I finished off the cigarette and made sure it was stubbed out before throwing it away. I focused on the store as I reached in my pocket for a pack of gum just as my cell phone went off.
After popping in a couple pieces of spearmint gum, I answered the call without looking at who it was. I knew it was Dmitry. He was the only asshole who had this number, and the only one who had the balls to call me.
“Yeah?” I barked out into the receiver and felt my body tense just as Amara came toward the glass, her focus on the street, her long dark hair draped over one shoulder.
All I could think about was the depraved, nasty things I wanted to do to her, how I’d tangle all that silky hair in my fist and yank her head back to bare her throat. I’d bite at that creamy neck, leaving marks so everyone saw she was mine. We didn’t need love or comfort. We only needed hardcore lust, and I sure as fuck had that in spades.
Visions of her on her knees with me forcing my cock in her mouth, down her throat, hearing her gag, feeling her muscles work against my shaft as I skull fucked her and told her how she was my dirty little whore. Onlyminethough. I’d never let anyone else have her, touch her, or even fucking look at her. I was a territorial fucker, proprietary, and Amara would be mine in every single fucking way that mattered.
If I pulled fingernails off some asshole for cutting me off in traffic, the psychotic shit I’d do to someone who eventhoughtlewd things about Amara, I’d skin them alive.
As if she heard my thoughts, her head turned in my direction.
