“I’m hoping we don’t need that long, but that’s the correct decision.”
“Very well. I’m sure Karah will be happy.” Don Bruno clears his throat and sits forward. “Now, let’s get into detail about these shipments.”
As Don Bruno talks, I catch a look from Casso: he’s grinning at me like he knows damn well what I just did.
I want to tell him to fuck off and quit smiling, but his dad’s speaking and interrupting the Don is tantamount to treason.
So I keep my mouth shut.
I am not going to marry Karah fucking Bruno.
I keep telling myself that, over and over, as I walk up to her room.
Guards are stationed down at the bottom of the stairs and at the end of the hall. I’m always watched, always monitored. Cameras are perched in the corners of each room, all except the family’s private bedrooms, and the footage is monitored twenty-four-seven.
Villa Bruno is a fortress.
And Karah could be my key.
But I’m not going to marry her.
I stop outside of her door to compose myself. My heart’s beating fast as I lean against the frame.
Why can’t I stop thinking about that kiss?
I must’ve lost my damn mind. I was having fun teasing her and things went too far. I let myself lose control, maybe because of the whiskey, maybe thanks to my own intense need for her, but either way I decided to play a dangerous game.
And I won. I got my kiss, my taste, and I thought that would be enough to quench my thirst.
I was so fucking wrong.
It made me want her more, and not only for my own selfish reasons.
Now I want her because I need to hear those absurd, beautiful little moans again.
Fuck, this is wrong. I want to ruin her, break her family, and leave her life a smoking crater—not marry her and fuck her and dominate her and make her my wife.
I knock on her door and wait for her to call out. I find her sitting in the corner of the room in her comfortable chair, her legs folded up beneath her, and the sketchbook open in her lap. I don’t see what she’s drawing—she closes it too fast and sends a puff of charcoal dust in the air.
Black marks smudge beneath her left eye. Her fingers are dusted dark with charcoal grains. Her hair’s up in this cute, messy bun, and she looks disheveled as hell but so small and so beautiful.
I stand there seething at myself and trying to summon that deep, black hatred I’ve felt for her for so long—but find it’s much grayer than it used to be.
She blinks a few times, surprised to see me. It’s a little past ten at night and I rarely ever come to her room, let alone this late at night.
“Did you come up here to make me feel like crap again? I was kind of hoping my room would be my safe space.”
My lips quirk despite myself. I remember the feel of her hips against mine and how hard my cock was as I bit her lower lip. I know she felt my stiffening shaft against her body, and I could’ve sworn she loved it.
“You have charcoal on your face.”
She reaches up to touch her nose—and leaves another smear behind. “Where? Here?”
“You got it.” I try not to smile and fail miserably.
Her eyes narrow. “You’re making fun of me. What do you want, asshole?”
“I just had a meeting with your father and your brother.” I lean against her doorframe. I can’t let myself go any further. I’m afraid of what I might do.
She sits up straight and puts her sketchbook aside. “I’m sure it was very exciting.”
“We talked about you.”
She goes still and watches me. “What did you say?”
“I told your father that I don’t think you should be sent to Dallas until Rinaldo’s caught. I convinced him that it would be too dangerous, and he agreed to let you stay for a few weeks more.”
Her face goes through a quick succession of emotions: surprise, excitement, anger, and finally, she lands on confusion.
“Why would you do that?”
I take a deep breath.
Why is a very good question, and one I can’t answer.
So instead of admitting the truth—that I am extremely conflicted, that I want to both destroy her and keep her safe—I decide to tell a half-truth instead.
“I said you need to prove yourself and I just bought you time to do it. You want to get out of this Dallas thing? Make me think you’re not a spoiled brat and maybe I’ll help.”
She stares at me and her confused optimism turns into anger.
“So basically, you bought a few more weeks to torture me.”
“More or less.”
“God, you’re such a dick. Are you even going to marry me if I play your little game?”
“I don’t know,” I say and mean it.