When She Loves (The Fallen, #4)(11)

“What the fuck are you doing?” she asks, sounding panicked.

“Don’t you ever smell your food before you taste it?”

She starts beating her small fists against my chest. “If you don’t take five steps back right now, I’ll scream and knee you in the balls so hard you can forget about procreation. I can’t believe no one told me you escaped from a lunatic asylum.”

I bite my lip.

“I mean it,” she says angrily.

I take another second to compose myself and then back away. “Save the screaming for our wedding night.”

When I see her grow pale, I feel a tingle of regret. Maybe that wasn’t the wisest thing to say for someone with my reputation. Is she scared about tomorrow? She doesn’t need to be. I might be a killer and a feared fighter, but I’m not like my father. I don’t get off on inflicting pain on those who are weaker than me. I’m about to clarify I meant she’d be screaming in pleasure, but I don’t get the words out fast enough.

“I hate you,” she spits out. “God, how I hate you.”

My gut tightens. Nero was right, she definitely doesn’t like me. But hate? That’s a strong word and one I don’t feel like I’ve earned.

I clear my throat, disturbed by how much what she just said bothers me. “You’ll get over it. After all, you’ve got a lifetime to warm up to me.”

She looks at me like she wants to burn me at the stake.

The antique clock on the wall makes a sound, drawing both of our attention to it. It’s seven.

I remove all traces of emotion from my expression and peer down at her. “My family is waiting for us.”

Cleo nods and purses her lips, refusing to meet my gaze. I offer her my arm, and after a moment of hesitation, she slips her hand into the crook of my elbow.

We walk out of the room with her anchored to me. Tension crackles around us.

I can’t resist studying her. She’s got one of the most striking faces I’ve ever seen, and yet I didn’t really notice her the first few times we met. It was after an encounter at her oldest sister’s wedding in Ibiza that my mind seemed to latch onto her.

Nero and I picked her up off the side of the road. She was walking—no, stumbling—with a half-empty mickey of vodka at eleven in the morning. Nero was the one who recognized her. I told the driver to stop the car, knowing she must have snuck out without her father’s permission. Even that idiot Garzolo wouldn’t let one of his daughters do something so reckless.

I can still remember the shock in her eyes when she saw us. She tried to run. Didn’t get very far, but she caused quite a scene. Vehicles slowed down to see what was going on, so we grabbed her and tossed her inside the car. When she nearly clawed my eyes out, I slid a zip tie around her wrists. When she wouldn’t stop arguing, I slapped a piece of tape over that brazen mouth. She glared at me the entire ride back, and when we returned her to her parents, she threatened me and called me a jerk-off. I couldn’t remember a woman ever speaking that way to me. I became very, very aware of her in that moment.

And that awareness has stayed with me ever since.

Her body stiffens as we walk through the arch leading into the ballroom. She must be nervous, but when I look down at her, her expression is a guarded mask.

Thirty or so Messeros sit at one long table, awaiting our arrival in a room where we’ve celebrated countless birthdays, anniversaries, and engagements, and where we’ve grieved more than a few deaths. This was my parents’ house before it was my own, and before that, it was my grandparents’. Our history is in these walls.

The conversations fall silent as people notice our entrance. I wonder if Cleo is attentive enough to notice their poorly concealed sneers. The position of the wife of the don is a coveted one, and Cleo is not the woman they wanted for me. No one would risk openly insulting her in my presence after I made it clear I wouldn’t entertain it, but still, their true feelings about my future wife are obvious on their faces.

I’ll have to fix that. The moment Cleo takes on my last name, she becomes mine, and disrespect against her is disrespect against me.

Nero lifts himself out of his chair and everyone follows his example.

When everyone is on their feet, I glance at Cleo. “I’d like to introduce my betrothed. Cleo Garzolo.”

There’s a murmur of unenthusiastic greetings.

Pink spreads over Cleo’s cheeks, and her expression turns downright hostile.

I should walk her around the table and introduce everyone to her one by one. Instead, I take her straight to our seats. I’m not going to risk someone who’s had a glass too many saying something they shouldn’t. I didn’t clean the blood off my hands only to get them dirty again before the appetizers are served. My relatives will have plenty of time to get to know Cleo once she becomes my wife. They know better than to test my patience by being anything but civil after that.

I lead Cleo to the two chairs at the head of the table and pull one out for her. Her lips are pursed into a tight line as she slides into her seat.

I take the chair beside her and nod at Nero and my mother. Elena and Fabi are sitting to Cleo’s left. My sisters’ expressions are strained as they study her. Both of them seem unsure if they should say something or not.

Maybe it would have been better to just bring her out tomorrow and scrap the whole rehearsal dinner idea, but it’s too late now.