His room felt as dark and brooding as him. The walls swallowed light, the curtains blocked even the suggestion of the outside world, and the faint scent of cigar smoke curled like a warning. The polished wooden furniture and thick Persian rug under my bare feet felt expensive, but instead of comfort it gave me the sensation of stepping into a place I had no right to be. A sacred, dangerous space.
The maid who had led me here had asked if I was okay. I nodded even though I wasn't. The moment she left, I let a few tears slipped free. My new reality hit me in pieces, like shards of glass. There was a glimmering ring on my finger and it was a symbol of the life I hadn't chosen and a man whose world I now belonged to.
I dragged myself into the bathroom, blinking at the patterned tiles and gold fixtures. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, red-eyed and blotchy, and washed the makeup off until my bare face stared back at me. She was unfamiliar. I looked trapped and caged.
I thought about running. I thought about selling the ring. But I also thought about how easily they could find me. They would find me. And I wasn't ready to die, or to have my brother pay the price.
I showered quickly, more to feel clean than anything else, and wandered into the closet. His clothes were a wall of dark: charcoal suits, black shirts, nothing with a hint of color. Even my things were in freshly arranged were muted tones. Beige. Nude. White. Black. I felt like color had been banned from my life.
I picked a plain pajama set and changed. The bed was huge and swallowing. I tossed and turned, feeling like it was quicksand. How was I supposed to sleep next to a man I barely knew?
Soon, I wondered where my phone was and searched until I found it in a bedside drawer. My hands shook as I turned it on. The glow of the screen was the only thing that felt normal. But I couldn't post. I couldn't tell anyone.
The wedding was supposed to be a secret. Donna Carmela had drilled that into me. One post could turn me into a target and I could easily be his weeakness.
My thumb scrolled on autopilot. My heart still hadn't slowed.
The door creaked just then and my stomach dropped. His footsteps cut through the silence.
"Welcome, wife," his voice rasped. It was low and heavy.
I jumped to my feet before I could think. He came in like the air belonged to him, like the space only bent around his presence. His dark eyes flicked to my phone and then back to my face.
"You look like you've been crying." He said it like it was an observation, not a question.
I shoved the phone aside. "I wasn't—"
He cocked his head, a small, humorless smile tugging at his mouth. "You were." He stepped closer until the scent of whiskey and spice curled around me. "But I'll forgive you. Tonight."
My pulse spiked and I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. "Thank you," I whispered, though it sounded ridiculous even to me.
He glanced at the ring on my finger, then at my pajama top. "You don't look like a wife yet," he said, voice softer but edged.
I immediately wrapped my arms around myself like they could protect me from his gaze. "I'm tired."
Jace's chuckle was dark and low. It sent goosebumps on a rampage over my body.
"We're all tired, mia cara. But being tired isn't an excuse." He reached out, not roughly but with command, and brushed a strand of damp hair from my face. His fingers trailed to my jaw, tilting my chin up until I had no choice but to meet his gaze.
"Take your clothes off," he said.
The words froze me. "What?"
"You heard me."
"Jace—"
"It's Mr. Romano to you." His tone sharpened, but his thumb stroked along my jaw, a confusing contradiction.
"I—Mr. Romano—please…" My voice trembled.
He stepped closer, his body heat wrapping around me, his height forcing me to tilt my head back to keep his gaze. My knees wobbled, my stomach twisting tight, and I could feel every hard line of him without him even touching me. He was crowding me until my back almost touched the dresser.
"I don't repeat myself."
"I'm so tired," I whispered. "Maybe some other time."
But my body didn't match my words. My thighs pressed together without permission. My skin tingled everywhere his eyes landed, like they carried heat of their own.
The air conditioner hummed but the real chill came from the intensity of his stare.
He smiled then, not kindly. "No woman says no to me. Especially not my wife."
I backed up until my hip hit the dresser. My mind screamed to keep distance but my body leaned toward him anyway. He reached for the buttons of my pajama top and slipped the fabric off my shoulders in one smooth motion. My breath hitched.
"Please wait," I said, clutching the fabric to cover myself as my pulse throbbed in places I didn't want to admit.
His gray eyes searched mine. They were intense but unreadable. He could have forced me. He had the power to.
His eyes dragged down my body, slow, deliberate, and when they returned to mine, the heat there made my breath falter. My heart pounded, and the wet ache between my thighs became undeniable.
A sudden knock on the door shattered the moment.
"What?!" he snapped.
I flinched slightly.
"Boss. Donna has asked to see you." The person in front of the door spoke.
He went still, then exhaled slowly. His gaze flicked over me once more. "I'm in a good mood today, so I'll let you be," he said. "But next time I tell you to take your clothes off, you do it. Got it?"
"Yes, Mr. Romano," I blurted out with a quick nod.
He paused at the door, his hand still on the knob, his eyes ravished me like a hawk.
"Good girl." He rasped out and then he was gone.
Silence soon closed in around me.
I sat back on the bed, shaking, my heart pounding so hard it hurt. Relief flooded me. He hadn't forced me. He simply left.
But under the relief was something ugly and shameful. It was disappointment. Because my body had betrayed me. The dampness between my thighs was proof of how much I wanted him, how much I craved his touch even when my mind told me not to.
I pressed my palms over my face and wanted to disappear. I was trapped between fear and desire, hating both and, hating myself for it.