She stared at me and blinked.
“Oh, dear, I think I forgot to turn off the oven.” She rushed outside, the door closing behind her.
I ran after her, yanking at the door handle. She locked me in. Shoot!
I paced back and forth, then grabbed the curtain and tore it from its rails. I didn’t know why I did it. I wanted to ruin something in his house the way he ruined me. I flung myself over the bed, a scream tearing at my lungs.
I cried myself to sleep that day. In my dream, I imagined Angelo dropping in for a visit at my parents’, finding out what happened with Wolfe, and then looking for me all over town. In my dream, he drove here, unable to bear the thought of me being with another man, and confronted Wolfe. In my dream, he took me away, somewhere far and tropic. Somewhere safe. This was the part where I knew it was a fantasy—if my father couldn’t stop Wolfe, no man could.
When I stirred awake, the last rays of the sun lazily filtered through the tall, bare windows. My throat felt groggy and dry, and my eyes were so puffy I couldn’t even open them all the way. I would kill for a glass of water, but I would die before asking for one.
The bed was dipped to one side. When I cracked my eyes open, I found out why.
Wolfe was sitting on the edge of the queen-size mattress. He stared at me with his piercing gaze and seemed to burn past skin and bones and hearts, turning them all to ash.
I narrowed my eyes, then opened my mouth to give him a piece of my mind.
“Before you say anything,” he warned, pushing the sleeves of his crisp white shirt up his elbows to expose veiny, muscular, and tan forearms, “I believe an apology is in order.”
“You think an apology is going to fix this?” I snapped acidly, tugging at the blanket to cover more of my body even though I was fully dressed.
He smirked, and I realized he liked our exchanges very much.
“It’d be a nice start. You said I was not being a gentleman, and I beg to differ. I honored your tradition and demanded your hand after kissing you.”
Unbelievable.
Now I was fully awake, my back pressing against the headboard.
“You want me to apologize to you?”
He smoothed the soft fabric of the pressed linen, taking his time to answer me.
“Shame your parents are set in their wish to keep you an obedient little housewife. You have a natural, fast grip on things.”
“You’re a fool if you think I’m just going to accept you as a husband.” I folded my arms over my chest.
Wolfe considered my words gravely, his fingers traveling near my ankle but not quite touching it. I’d kick him if I didn’t think he’d enjoy my anger even more.
“The notion that you can touch me or what’s mine in any way, other than sucking my cock whenever I’m generous enough to allow it, amuses me. Why don’t we get to know each other over dinner tonight before you make any more declarations you can’t back up? There are some house rules you need to obey.”
Lord, I wanted to hurt him so badly it burned at my fingertips.
“Why? Because I’d rather eat rotten fruit and drink sewer water than have a meal with you,” I snarled.
“Very well.” He produced something from behind his back. A simple white calendar. He reached over and placed it on the nightstand next to me. It was a nice touch, after giving me the watch that felt more like a shackle than a gift.
When he spoke, he looked at the calendar, not me.
“It takes twenty-one days to form a habit. I recommend you make me a pattern of sorts. Because come August twenty-second,” he announced, rising up from the bed, “you will be standing at the altar, promising me the rest of your days. A promise I intend to take seriously. You’re a collected debt, a retaliation, and, quite frankly, pretty decent arm candy. Good night, Miss Rossi.” He turned around and sauntered toward the door, kicking aside the curtain on his way out.
A short hour later, Ms. Sterling arrived with a silver tray containing squashed, rotten-looking fruit, and a glass of water that was freakishly gray. She stared at me with crushing misery that made her already wrinkled face appear even older.
There was an apology in those eyes.
I didn’t accept it or the food.
FUCK.
Shit.
Cocksucker.
Asshole.
Clusterfuck.
Nutsackdouchebagbuttfuck.
Those were just some of the words I could no longer allow myself to utter, in public or otherwise, as a senator representing the state of Illinois. Serving my state—my country—was my only real passion. The problem was, my real upbringing was quite different from the one portrayed in the media. In my mind, I cussed. A lot.