I didn’t know what to say, but I wasn’t ready to accept this.
“I don’t know how to cook,” I blurted, before looking at Nicolas, who still leaned against the wall, his hands in his pockets.
“I have one,” was all he said in a deep, thoughtful voice. I had a feeling he didn’t entirely want this marriage either, so why had he agreed to it?
“I like to shop. I spend way too much money.” It was true, but I also donated to the local shelters just so I wouldn’t feel so bad about my spendthrift ways. So I guessed that meant I spent even more.
“I have it.”
Was he only going to speak to me in three words now that he owned me?
“Enough, Elena,” Papà cut in. “Go.”
A frustrated sound traveled up my throat, but I kept it locked in. “I don’t want this,” I told my papà, my voice quiet. I avoided Nicolas’s gaze, though it burned my cheek like a rash.
“It is done.” Papà copied my tone, but his words were final.
So I left his office, headed to my room, and, while packing a bag, I contemplated how I could ever survive Nicolas Russo.
“Lust will be the death of us.”
—Unknown
THERE WAS NOTHING BUT SILENCE. In fact, the quiet seemed to eat at me the entire drive. And the worst thing about it was his car smelled so damn good. The events of today hit me like whiplash, leaving a numbness behind that only his masculine scent seemed to penetrate. Instead of the prickling feeling of panic, his close proximity and the idea of his hands on me were driving me insane.
It was as though my body focused on the primal aspect I’d been craving so I wouldn’t be traumatized by the event. A protective mechanism.
I was equating marrying Nicolas to severe trauma.
Truly, it didn’t seem far apart.
There was a difference between lusting after a man and wanting him to be the father of your children. The idea pulled me in two resilient directions: thrill, and terror.
The feelings were so tenacious I remained only numb, leaving room for one thing. Warmth hummed between my legs, my skin a nesting ground for electricity and ice.
My mamma had watched me walk out the door with Nico carrying my bag, her eyes wide as if I were being sent to the slaughterhouse. Even my sister had rushed down the stairs, mouthing, “I’m sorry,” before the door shut behind me. Papà never came out of his office, and Tony and my cousins only watched Nico like he was stealing something.
I wanted to stay detached from this man, as indifferent as I possibly could, but as the city passed before my eyes in a blur of concrete and bright sun and we grew closer to his place, impassive was not a word I would even recognize.
When we pulled up to a familiar red-brick house, my throat grew tight. “Why not the penthouse?”
“Expecting something more lavish?”
My eyes narrowed. “What? No. I just expected the penthouse. That’s what you chose for Adriana.”
“It’s not what I choose for you.”
I tensed. He wasn’t letting me forget he owned me now, and it cut through the numb haze that caged me.
I didn’t know what to feel: nervous, terrified, determined to keep some autonomy, or aroused by the possibility of his hands on me. It became a mixture of all four, dancing along my skin as I got out of the car.
Nico grabbed my bag from the backseat, and I followed him into the house. It was larger than it looked from the outside. The back door entered into the kitchen, with steel appliances, gray granite countertops, and low lighting.
An office sat to the right of me, the cherry desk visible through the cracked door. Except for that and a small bathroom and laundry room to my left, the space was an open floor plan, with a staircase running upstairs. You could watch the flat-screen TV while standing at the island. It was simple, masculine, and comfortable.
I swallowed when he shut the back door with an unmistakable click. I was still in shock about this turn of events and didn’t know how to process it completely, or at all. I was going through the motions while my thoughts lagged behind.
He dropped my bag into an armchair and then his keys on the kitchen counter. This place might look the epitome of comfortable, but I had no idea how I would ever feel that way in his space.
I stood planted next to the door, while he poured himself a drink from the minibar near the front windows. A strong feeling consumed me that if I moved, something would attack me—maybe him. The curtains were closed, and only small shards of light got through, leaving the room dimly lit.
It was nine o’clock in the morning and he was drinking whiskey. I prayed he wasn’t an alcoholic. He might have stopped my uncle from hitting me last night, but knowing a few alcoholics, especially on my mamma’s side, nothing about them was predictable.