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Iwas being tugged at, plucked, shaped into what my mother and father saw as the perfect Italian girl for my future husband.
And all I could do was stand there, staring at myself in the full length mirror as servants bustled around me, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles in my dress, making sure every curl, every hair was in its place. My makeup had been done twenty minutes ago, a subtle, natural look that accentuated my beauty, or so my mother said.
They were murmuring and under their breath, a string words on how they wanted everything to be perfect “per Master Bianchi’s orders”. And I just stood there like a doll that they could prep and primp, not feeling anything, not seeing anything.
There was a soft knock at my bedroom door and then my mother was coming in, speaking in Italian to the servants, ushering them out and coming to stand behind me, her delicate sized hands resting on my shoulders. She was only about an inch taller than my five-foot-five frame, but even still I couldn’t meether gaze. There was a lump in my throat, an ache in my chest, and full pressure in my belly.
“Dmitry and Nikolai Petrov have arrived and are downstairs in your father’s cigar room,” she said softly and I nodded once, licking my lips and continuing to stare at my reflection.
My mother had picked out the dress I was currently in, an emerald green full length one that she said complimented my olive complexion and dark hair beautifully. It was long sleeved, with a scalloped collar that dipped right underneath my collarbone bones, an attribute my father always said hinted at femininity.
Although it was form fitting and showed the slight swells of my breasts, the dips of my hips, and the flare of my waist, it was still modest, the skirting fell to my ankles, keeping the majority of my skin covered so I seemed innocent. Virginal. Because that was, after all, the biggest selling point. My inexperience. My lack of anything and everything sexual.
I’d never been alone with the opposite sex who wasn’t hired by my father to guard me, who wasn’t a family member. I’d been sheltered and sequestered away until all I could do was gather my worldly experience from the many books in the library, from the hushed whispering and gossiping of the staff.
“Mr. Petrov will be stunned when he sees your beauty, Amara.” She moved her hands down my shoulders and gripped my upper arms gently. “He’ll treat you well.” I could hear the hopeful tone in her voice. Was she trying to convince me or herself?
I said nothing, just nodding like a good Italian daughter who knew her place even if all she wanted to do was scream and curse and break everything. I had so much bottled-up emotion, so much anger and rage that I wanted to hurt someone, something.
I wanted everyone else to feel my frustration.
“Comepasserotta,”my mother said and gently placed her hand on the small of my back to lead me out of my room.
Once we made it to the top of the stairs I could hear deep voices filtering up from my father’s cigar room. I reached out and gripped the banister, curling my fingers tightly around it, digging my nails into the wood. My heart was thundering, my throat tightened and my mouth went dry.
There was a deep rumble of laughter and I felt this tightening in my chest, something that didn’t have anything to do with fear but of anticipation. Was that Nikolai’s voice? Would he be as intimidating in person as he was in the images I was just looking at?
My mother led the way, clicking her tongue for me to get going like I was a show horse. I guess I was to them, in a way.
I realized we were standing in the opened doorway of my father’s cigar room before I realized I’d even moved. My mother’s hand rested on the center of my back, and my focus was on my father first, who held a square-cut glass of amber colored liquid in his hand. He leaned against his oak desk, a cigar between the fingers of his other hand. He laughed deeply and I let my gaze slide to the two men who stood a few feet across from him and beside the fireplace mantle.
And as if our silent presence was a heavy weight in the room, all conversation between the men ceased and their attention latched right onto me. Andmygaze was locked on one man specifically, as if we were two magnets and I was helpless to fight the pull.
His short dark hair was in a disarray around his head, brushing his forehead as if he’d been running his fingers through it. Or maybe how he looked when he woke up in the morning, or how he looked after he…
I pushed those obscene thoughts away as I felt my face heat, no doubt painting my flesh crimson.
His masculine square jaw was covered in a dark shadow of scruff, and no man should have lips that full. I wasn’t even ashamed at how deeply I was looking at him, how I took in his straight, angular nose, or how his eyes were so blue they were a stark contrast to his darker tones.
Even if I hadn’t known what he looked like before meeting him in person, his visible reaction to my presence tipped me off that he was my future husband.
His jaw clenched slightly, his nostrils flared suddenly. I saw a tightening of his fingers around the bourbon glass he held, and there was no mistaking the way he checked me out, his gaze roaming up and down my body.
Despite wearing a demure, modest dress, I felt completely naked at that moment as his gaze moved up and down my body.
“Amara,” my father said in a tone that he’d never used with me before. Gentle.
He held his hand out and beckoned me.
I felt a nudge from behind, my mother gently pushing me further into the room. I took a couple steps forward and looked over my shoulder at her. She stood in the doorway, hands clasped in front of her, her head down. The perfect submissive Italian wife for my father. It made me nauseous.
“Amara,” my father’s voice turned a little harder, a little sterner.
I knew my lack of obeying him right away angered him, and if the Petrov’s weren’t here right now I’d have a red mark on my cheek in the shape and size of my father’s palm.
I faced forward once more and made my way over to him quickly, finding it hard to breathe the longer I was in the room with these three men. He gripped my upper arm harder than necessary and I couldn’t stop the wince. I noticed the subtle tightening of Nikolai’s shoulders, the slight narrowing of his eyes as his gaze landed on where my father held onto me.
My father turned me so I was facing the two Petrov’s and let go of me. Dmitry leaned against the edge of the mantle, a smirk on his face as he brought his glass to his mouth and took a long drink. But then my focus was locked on Nikolai once more, as if I had no control.
