Delilah's POV
The sound of a door clicking wakes me from a deep sleep.
I won't admit to Carmine that it's been my best night's sleep in a while. My back doesn't ache from an old mattress, and the comforter is thick and warm, cocooning me in peace. I never want to leave this bed.
Sitting up, I stretch my arms above my head. I know I need to get up and face the reality I've put myself in, but the silence is nice. There are no questions, no tears, no expectations to meet. I'm alone, accountable to no one, and it feels… freeing.
I have time to consider my decisions and why I made them without asking for anyone else's opinion.
I sling the blanket off and toss my legs over the edge of the bed, my feet dangling above the floor because the bed is so high. Rolling my head over my shoulder to stretch my neck, Christy's words echo in my mind:
"You can't always be the solution for your father's mistakes, Delilah."
And while putting himself at Carmine's mercy was one of my father's solutions to his problems, it wasn't the first.
Dad is horrible with money.
I never discussed his irresponsible spending because I didn't want him to feel bad. I knew he did his best with me, especially after Mom left and he had to take on both roles. It couldn't have been easy, so I helped whenever I could.
The shop has been in trouble more than once.
Dad tends to get desperate and wants solutions immediately, but it always lands him in trouble. He gambled away the shop's emergency fund. Every cent.
And I took out a student loan to replenish it.
I knew I didn't have to pay it back immediately, so taking out the loan was an easy decision. He thanked me profusely and promised to pay me back monthly.
He never did.
He spent the money on a new truck, which he totaled. And then I had to cover another car.
Suddenly, I was $30,000 in debt, and none of it was for school because I had an academic scholarship.
It's not that he isn't a good father, he is. I've never once doubted his love. He always shows it. But Dad has always been a mess.
He's never made great choices. Before I cleaned up his messes, it was Mom. Now that I'm older, I understand why she left. She was exhausted, drained from taking care of him.
After this, after agreeing to carry Carmine's baby and marry him, I'm done too. I can't keep paying for Dad's mistakes. There's nothing left for me to do. Nothing left to give. I've given up my credit, my life, and now my body.
I love my dad so much it hurts, but I realize he isn't good for me.
Family or not, he is toxic, wearing me down. I'm young. I'm only twenty-one, and I'm already tired of life. I'm tired of fixing him.
Maybe that's selfish,but it's time I was selfish. I deserve that much.
Standing, I notice a note on the nightstand with my name written in elegant script. Of course, he had handwriting like this, the kind angled with precision, the loops sharp and exact. It's almost romantic, but I know everything he signs carries weight… danger.
I trace my name with my fingers. The letters tell a story of perfection, as if the person writing dares anyone to challenge them.
There's a hidden challenge here, one of a man always in control, and nothing, not even little old me, can ruffle his feathers.
I can't wait to be the reason for his downfall.
Delilah,
When you awaken, dinner is in the kitchen, and in the closet are fresh clothes. Please, get comfortable and meet me so we can review the contract.
Your Dearest Future Husband,
Carmine
I scoff, my fingers twitching to crumble the paper and throw it across the room.
Husband.
Out of all the people I thought I'd marry, I never once imagined it would be someone like him. So cruel, so calculated, so necessary.
Sighing, I fold the note and place it on the nightstand. The moon's bright glow streams through the window, giving me enough light to make my way to the bathroom. I wince at my reflection.
My hair is a mess from sleep, pillow indents mar the left side of my face, my lipstick is smeared, and mascara shadows my eyes.
With an annoyed groan, I flick on the closet light and freeze.
The clothes he mentioned in the note are laid out perfectly. One half of the closet is filled with his pristine suits and Italian leather shoes. Even his plain white T-shirts are hung with care, aligned perfectly on black velvet hangers.
"Of course, you hang T-shirts on velvet," I mutter.
I double-check to see if I'm alone, then touch the deep blue suit jacket. The fabric is soft, silky, almost decadent. Boldly, I drag my fingers over every suit, from black to navy. There's even a dark purple blazer.
I bet it looks incredible against his tanned skin.
I jerk my hand back, chastising myself. Being a captive shouldn't look this good.
Is he trying to buy my trust with pretty clothes and expensive purses? Everything is here, dresses, skirts, blouses, heels, sandals, belts, jeans. How did he know my size?
"Oh my God," I whisper, awestruck. I lift an emerald green satin gown from its hanger. A full-length mirror waits in the corner. I press the dress to my body to see its shape without playing dress-up.
Thin straps, a plunging neckline showing cleavage, and a floor-skimming hem, perfect for heels. And heels, rows of them, line half the wall. Louboutins in every color, naturally.
After hanging the dress back on a hanger that probably costs more than my phone, I open the drawers, only to slam them shut again. I inhale sharply; my cheeks burn. There's no way Carmine bought these lingerie sets without expecting something.
How cocky is he, assuming I'd want to wear lingerie for him?
When I sign my life away to marry him and carry his child, I plan on lying there, waiting for it to be over. Surely, I won't want him.
But as I reopen the drawer, tracing the fine red lace and the underwire cups, I realize… I'll want him.
I want the darkness that cloaks him to consume me, to drag me to the edge where his madness thrives.
"I'm so fucked," I mutter, folding the lingerie and putting it back.
Other drawers hold sleepwear, soft, cozy, and matched. But I don't feel like being cozy. I want to ruffle his perfect feathers.
I undress, leaving my dirty clothes in a heap. Snagging one of his oversized black shirts, I pull it over my head, letting it fall to my knees. Even his plain shirts are softer than freshly laundered clothes. I bet it cost more than my student loan.
After turning off the closet light, I wash up, brush my hair, and toss it into a messy bun before heading to the doors that have kept me confined.
I grip the knob and yank it open. The door swings easily, revealing a long hallway that will lead me to my execution, or perhaps my salvation.
The floor is cold under my feet as I move deeper into the mansion. I take my time, studying the expensive paintings, each lit by its own spotlight.
At the end of the hall, I find the living room. A black-painted brick fireplace dominates one wall. Most people would display family photos, but not Carmine. A few unused candles and a small chest rest on the narrow mantel. Curious, I lift the lid and peer inside: rows of cigars.
I frown. I expected something darker… bloodier.
"What the fuck do you think you're wearing?"
I jump. His voice is right behind me, breath warm against my cheek. I spin around, pressing against his chest. My nipples harden from the friction. His hands grip my hips, fingers clutching the shirt as if he wants to tear it off.
"Your shirt is huge. It fits me just fine. It's like a dress. No one can see anything."
"I bought you clothes," he says, chest heaving, stepping closer.
Somehow, I find myself pinned against the fireplace. One arm stretches to my right as his hand grips the mantel, leaning toward me.
I need to stop finding myself trapped against surfaces in this house with Carmine. But something about it… about him… affects me in ways that would shame a normal woman. I press my thighs together, fighting the ache growing between my legs.
"I don't want my brothers, or anyone else seeing you in my clothes, Delilah. Go change." He tilts his head, leaning forward. "Now."
His lips brush mine, a ghost of contact, sending goosebumps across my skin.
"No."
His hand wraps around my throat like a necklace. I tilt my head back, staring into the depths of his eyes.
Gold rings circle his pupils, flecked with garnet as if blood has taken permanent residence in them. Long, dark lashes frame them, too perfect for a man, too dangerous for a woman like me.
"No one tells me no, Sweetling," his words drip with wickedness, low and smoky, like a cigar's ember.
"Get used to it. I won't bow to you, Carmine."
His thumb presses against my bottom lip, a smirk tilting his mouth. "You'll bow, eventually." He kisses my cheek, his breath hot at my ear. "Eventually, you'll even get on your knees for me."
I swallow, refusing to give in to the darkly decadent spell he's casting over me.
"I'll never get on my knees for you, Carmine."
A soft chuckle grazes my neck as he leans closer. If he presses his lips to the side of my throat, he'll feel the erratic pulse of my heartbeat. All I have is the mask I wear, and I can't let him strip it away. I can't let him see how weak he makes me, how terrified he truly makes me feel.
"Want to bet?" His eyes glint, as if he knows something I don't.
"You'll lose."
He tucks his hands into his pockets, amusement curling his lips.
"There's one thing you need to know about me, Delilah."
I cross my arms. "Let me guess, you never lose?"
My stomach reminds me I haven't eaten, so I start toward the kitchen.
He grips my arm, yanking me back. "I don't put myself in a position to lose. If I am, I deal with it."
"So… you cheat?"
"I don't fight fair, Sweetling. I fight to get ahead, to get what I want. I don't care whom I hurt." He reaches for my face. I close my eyes, bracing for his touch. He tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "But the last person I'll hurt is you."
I open my eyes, lost in them. The intensity has me holding my breath. Can I trust him? I know what he's capable of. If I anger him, could a gun end my life?
"I will hurt anyone who lays a hand on you. You are mine, Delilah. Your worries, your laughter, your fears, the very air in your lungs, they belong to me."
"They don't belong to you… until I sign the contract," I remind him, heart hammering in my chest.
Carmine gestures to the kitchen. "After you, Sweetling."
His fingers brush my leg as I pass, his steps quiet but deliberate behind me. I don't need to see him to know he's watching, and a flush creeps up my cheeks at the weight of his gaze. What kind of woman enjoys the attention of a villain?
In the kitchen, my fingers skim the granite countertop. The stools are perfectly spaced, the appliances gleaming stainless steel. Bulbs hang at varying lengths over a table that could seat twelve. A black mural dominates the far wall, matte and glossy swirls of random, tear-like slashes. It's chaotic and emotional, and the longer I stare, the more it pulls me in.
"It's called 'Oblivion,'" Carmine says, sliding a chair out for me. I sit, the shirt riding up my thighs.
"It's haunting," I admit, folding my hands.
He takes the head of the table, his chair larger, carved, dominant. One arm snakes behind my chair, the other grips the seat's edge between my legs, yanking me closer.
I yelp, slapping the table. His fingers trace teasing circles on my inner thigh, close to where I've tried to hide how much I burn for him.
"And so are you," he whispers in my ear, tugging the hem of my shirt down. "You'll test me, I can already tell. But you will not show anyone what is mine. We are not alone here. Do you understand? I'd hate to have to blind one of my brothers."
"You wouldn't..." I begin, but his dark gaze silences me.
"It would be hard," he admits, toying with my collar, "but I would. They'd do the same to anyone who tried to take what isn't theirs."
"That's barbaric." The words catch in my throat, both terrified and aroused by his intensity.
"It's the way we are. How we live," he says matter-of-factly.
A clatter of pots and pans makes me jump. "It's only Marie, my private chef," he explains. Of course, he has a private chef.
A silver platter is placed before me. Chicken Alfredo with steamed broccoli and a lemon arugula salad. Steam rises from the pasta, filling my nose with its rich aroma.
Marie sets down Carmine's plate. He offers her a small, genuine smile. He seems to care for her, in his own way.
"Thank you, Marie. It looks wonderful."
She hurries off, promising drinks. I reach for my fork, but my appetite has vanished. How can I eat when my freedom is on a timer?
"You need to eat everything on your plate," he commands, pointing with his fork.
"How can I eat when we have so much to discuss?"
Marie returns with drinks and disappears again.
"Don't worry about her. She knows better than to speak," he assures me.
"I'm not worried." I push my pasta around. He clatters his fork, dragging my chair closer. He takes my plate, moving it toward him.
"If I have to feed you myself, I will," he murmurs.
"I'll eat after the contract," I say, anxiety twisting my stomach.
"You'll eat now." He spears a piece of broccoli.
"Carmine, I'm too nervous," I admit.
He swirls the pasta, lifting the fork to my lips. "There's no need. I'll take care of you. Open."
"You aren't feeding me."
"I will if you won't. I won't have you starve. Open." His shadow covers the plate. "Open."
"This is ridiculous."
"Stop acting ridiculous and open your mouth." His tone isn't harsh, it's want.
I part my lips, frozen.
"Good girl." He pushes the fork between them. The creamy sauce bursts over my tongue. I moan softly, hunger returning as my nerves settle.
I reach for my fork. His hand falls over mine, spinning the pasta again.
"You like being taken care of," he says, his gaze hard.
"Who doesn't?" I reply, dabbing my mouth. "Everyone likes to be pampered."
"We'll have to agree to disagree," he murmurs, stabbing another piece of broccoli.
"I'm not the biggest fan of broccoli."
"That's too bad. You need your vegetables."
I roll my eyes. "I'm not twelve, Carmine. I won't grow if I eat greens."
"No," he says, "but you'll have nutrients. You'll be strong for what I have planned. So… open your mouth, Delilah."
I shake my head, defying him.
"Eat three pieces of broccoli. That's all I ask."
"What do I get if I do?"
He leans back, sets his fork down, and wipes his mouth with a napkin. Pushing his plate aside, he pulls an envelope from his back pocket. "We'll go over this contract right now, Sweetling, and put your fears to rest."
I tap the table nervously, staring at the document that holds the rest of my life. "I just have to eat the broccoli?"
He flashes a lop-sided grin, dimples teasing. "That's it. See? I compromise."
I pop three pieces into my mouth, gagging as I chew. Disgusting.
I swallow, but one branch lodges in my throat. I cough violently, slapping my chest. Green sprays across the kitchen. Tears sting my eyes. A chair clatters to the floor. Hands wrap around my waist, Carmine pressing my back to his chest, performing the Heimlich maneuver.
I claw at my throat, gasping. Pain shoots through my ribs as he squeezes me. Finally, I cough violently, broccoli flying across the floor. Strings of spit drip from my mouth as I struggle to breathe. My nails dig into Carmine's hand, still pressed against my stomach.
I almost died… from broccoli.
"I've got you. You're okay. Safe." He spins me around, burying my face in his chest as I cry, gasps still tearing from me. His fingers comb through my hair, shushing me, murmuring words I can't focus on.
Gently, he lifts me and sits down on a nearby chair, curling me into his lap, cheek pressed to his shoulder. He leans back, hands framing my face. "You scared the life out of me," he murmurs, a hint of anger in his tone. "If you don't want to be treated like a child, don't stuff three pieces of broccoli in your mouth at once. I never want to feel that fear again."
He wipes my mouth, offering water. I sip, the cold soothing my raw throat. He sets the cup aside, fingers still combing through my hair. I sag against him, eyes shutting, breathing slowly returning.
I nuzzle his shoulder, inhaling the spicy scent of his expensive cologne.
"Thank you," I croak, throat raw.
"I said I wouldn't let anything hurt you. Not even rogue broccoli."
I lift my head, searching for humor in his eyes, but find none. He's deadly serious.
"It was only broccoli," I rasp. "I shouldn't have tried to eat so much. I was eager to get to the contract."
His fingers slide under my chin, lifting my face to his gaze. His irises are as dark as a starless night. "There will be times your eagerness is rewarded," he murmurs, "but only when I say so, Sweetling."
"There you go, speaking of things you know nothing about." I reach for water again, still perched on his lap.
"I know enough." He slides the envelope toward me, tapping the contract with a finger. "Open it. I've already signed."
"I think I should read this while not sitting in your lap." I slide off his thighs. He lets me go, jaw tight, clearly displeased, but I appreciate the space. Carmine Milazzo has many sides; I never know which will appear.
Shaky hands unfold the paper.
This contract is entered into by Carmine Milazzo (First Party) and Delilah June Reynolds (Second Party). The term of this agreement shall begin within one week of Ms. Delilah Reynolds staying in the Milazzo Estate and shall continue through the end of three years.
The specific terms follow: Delilah Reynolds agrees to marry and carry Carmine Milazzo's child in return for her father's debt being paid. She will choose when their first sexual encounter occurs. She will share Carmine's bed exclusively. Both parties will raise their child together, with Delilah maintaining constant access. Engagement and wedding rings are to be worn by both parties. No separation or divorce will be requested for three years. Carmine will financially support Delilah and the child for life; if he passes first, his estate will continue support. Delilah will kiss Carmine before sleep each night, first initiated by her, subsequent kisses at his insistence. Carmine vows to protect Delilah and the child at all costs. This agreement is binding unless amended in writing.
Carmine's signature is in red ink, perfect cursive hugging the line. My spot is blank, waiting.
"Questions, Sweetling?" he asks, placing the red fountain pen before me.
"If I did… would you answer honestly?"
For some reason, he hands me my water. "Drink. Stay hydrated."
I obey, pausing mid-swallow. Why do I follow his instructions? Do I like not thinking for myself?
"I'll always be honest, Delilah. Lies do not make a good man."
"But killing does?" I challenge. He stands, leaning over, one hand bracing the chair, the other gripping the table. "There's a fine line between good and bad. Good men protect; bad men… also protect."
"So you consider yourself good?"
"Mmm," he hums, running a hand through my hair. "A good man with very bad intentions." He places the pen in my hand. "My intentions with you are purely selfish."
The words twist in my throat. "Those intentions… aren't listed. Not in the deal."
He sits slowly, smug. "Sign it, Sweetling. I won't waste another second you aren't mine."
The voice in my head whispers, hell yes.
Red ink, like blood, marks my surrender as I sign. I glance at the terms again, every clause, in some way, protects me.
"Why the kiss every night?" I murmur, laying down the pen. "That's… intimate."
"That isn't negotiable." He snatches the contract, pointing to my plate. "Eat. And don't choke this time."
I slump against the chair, pushing my plate away. Understanding Carmine's mind feels impossible. A nightly kiss… maybe it isn't so bad.