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Things could be worse. He could have killed me already. That would be worse for sure. Or he could be torturing me right now, plucking my nails out one by one, pulling out teeth. These mafia criminals can get really creative when they want to send a message.
I shiver at the mere thought of those possibilities. Yes, things could certainly get worse. As it is, fear of the unknown has me feeling as if the very ground I’m standing on is unsteady. Every step I take seems perilous, like it might be my last.
Breathe. Breathe. You’re alive right now. That’s what matters.
I step under the hot shower jets and let the water work its magic. For a moment, I allow myself to believe I’m in a luxurious old-world hotel with no worries or problems. Yesterday dissolves into nothingness. The wedding, the lies, and the hate.
The kiss.
I shut my eyes and groan when the memory of Luca’s lips on mine continues to play in my mind. It’s the one thing I’m unable to forget, even for a few seconds. Not when my skin still burns from it.
There’s no denying it happened. Which means itallhappened.
With a sigh, I step out of the shower and wrap myself in one of the fluffy white towels hanging from a hook. After drying myself, I search every drawer under the marble double sink vanity until I find a basket with several new toothbrushes. I take one of those and thoroughly clean my mouth, but again, not even that can erase Luca’s taste from my tongue.
“Dick,” I mutter, going into the bedroom to search for something to wear.
Since he insists Alma’s clothes aren’t mine, I’ll have to find something else.
To my surprise, I find a plate with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich cut into perfect triangles and a glass of milk on the dresser. I didn’t hear anyone come in. Quickly, I rush to peer down the long hall that leads to the stairwell but find no one.
I shut the door quietly, then proceed to stuff the PB&J into my mouth as I search for something to wear. In a drawer, I find rows of neatly stacked white T-shirts. I consider moving on and looking for something else, but a peek at the bed makes me yawn and reach for one of the soft cotton things and slip it on.
Like a sleepy cat, I drink down the milk and lick my lips, then practically crawl back to the bed. I slide between the sheets and fluff the pillow beneath my head. If I had an hour of actual sleep last night, that would have been generous. And while I don’t like sleeping as much as Alma—I prefer being productive—one hour is too little, even for me.
Exhaustion weighs my lids down, and I welcome the dreamy haze that descends over me. Finally, I’ll rest. Finally, I’ll forget about forced marriages and threats to my family.
And I’ll forget about penetrating blue eyes that touch a part of me I can’t protect and a kiss as dangerous as the man who gave it to me.
* * *
A slight knock on the door startles me awake. I nearly crawl up the headboard. For a second, I’m disoriented, and I search wildly for something familiar. A window where I expect it to be. A door. Anything.
When I do recognize my surroundings, I almost wish I didn’t.
I’m inhissuite. Surrounded byhiswalls. Lying inhisbed. Wearing his white T-shirt, and nothing else, because I had nothing of my own here.
Before I can straighten up, Luca enters. He’s recently showered. I can tell by the damp appearance of his hair and the casual way he’s wearing his low-slung jeans with no shoes. A shirt is thrown over his bare shoulder, as if he was in the middle of dressing when he decided to come check on me.
Just as I’m about to ask where he showered if not in his bathroom, his gaze finds me, and as if he’s processing what he’s seeing, he scans me from head to toe. He takes in everything with slow precision—the bed, the rumpled sheets.
Me.
His eyes snap to mine, a deep, unfathomable blue that tightens the pit of my belly and robs me of breath.
He drops his stare once again. “You’re wearing my shirt.”
Automatically, I look down, only to discover my nipples have not only hardened to pebbled peaks, but are pressing shamelessly against the cotton. I fight the urge to pull the shirt from my body, wanting to make the dark crests less visible. Hating that he’s making me squirm.
“I had nothing else,” I say, shifting as casually as possible and tucking my legs closer. “You never brought my luggage up.”
“I already told you those clothes don’t belong to you.”
“Then let me go home and get my own.”
“I’ll send someone to get your things when I’m ready.” He shuts the door behind him and sets the lock, the sound of it almost deafening.
My heart leaps into my throat when he comes nearer, but I somehow manage to remain where I am.
