"H-honeymoon?" I choke out the word.
"Yes, darling," Christian turns to me, "I know how much you are looking forward to the two of us being alone."
I open my mouth to protest, but he shakes his head, "No, I know. It’s a lot to ask you to wait for our away time, but you have been so understanding about it. You are a true Mafia bride."
Jerk. He knows that’s the one thing I hate being called. It’s the one thing I swore to myself I’d never be, yet here I am, standing next to my Mafioso husband, wearing his ring on my finger. I try to tug my hand out of his grasp, but he tightens his hold on me.
Nonna glances between us. "You know, I was so sure that the two of you were putting on some kind of show meant to fool me into believing that you were together, but now—"
"Now?" Christian tilts his head.
"Now," she turns to me, "seeing the happy glow on your face and the glint of possession in yours, Christian," she glances at him, "I know that it wasn’t an act."
"But, Nonna—"
I begin to protest when Christian interrupts, "Aren’t we going to be late for the wedding reception?"
I scowl at him and he smirks. "Bet you can’t wait to have our first dance together as husband and wife, eh?"
I swallow. It’s done; for better or worse, he is my husband, and I am his wife. At least, for the next thirty days. A tremor grips me, my feet and hands feel numb, all of the blood drains from my head, and I sway. Christian immediately releases my hand and puts his arm around me. He pulls me close enough that his masculine scent fills my nostrils, which only makes everything worse. Pressure builds behind my eyes, and to my horror, a tear squeezes out from the corner of my eye.
"Oh, my dear," Nonna exclaims, "the events have been too much for you. Perhaps, the two of you should skip the wedding reception and proceed directly to the honeymoon?"
"No," I burst out, "I… I’ll be okay. I just need to eat something, is all."
"Haven’t you eaten breakfast?" Christian scowls at me.
I glance away.
"You shouldn’t starve yourself, Flower." He turns to Nonna, "Why don’t you head on to the reception, and I’ll feed my wife before we join you?"
Half an hour later, I glance out of the window of our bedroom. Our bedroom, in our new home that Christian purchased for us. Which happens to be adjacent to Michael and Karma’s home, which Michael purchased after they married. I’ve shed the veil, and the dress now resembles more of a gown, something that is perfect to wear to a wedding reception, thanks to Karma’s design.
There’s a knock on the door, and Cassandra wheels in a trolley with dishes. She glances from me to Christian, who’s kicked back on the settee. "Do you need anything else?" she asks.
"Thanks for helping out, Cassandra," Christian murmurs as he rises to his feet.
"You shouldn’t be working today." I cross over to her. "You did come to the wedding, didn’t you? I don’t think I saw you."
"I was there, all right." She gestures to the dress she is wearing under her apron. "It was a beautiful ceremony, Aurora." She smiles at me. "You were such a radiant bride; you made me cry."
"I did?" I blink. "To be honest, I was so nervous I don’t think I remember much of the ceremony."
"As long as you remember the kiss at the end, I’m not complaining," Christian jokes.
"You are coming to the reception, aren’t you?" I reach for Cassandra’s hand and grip it. Her fingers seem too warm… Or rather, mine are too cold.
She frowns at me. "Everything okay?" she asks in a low voice.
I open my mouth then close it. Heat singes my back, and I know Christian has come up to stand behind me. He places his hand on my shoulder, and I gulp. I force my lips to curve in a smile. "Yes, of course," I tip up my chin, "everything’s good. I’m just hungry, is all. I couldn’t eat this morning; too many nerves." I force myself to laugh.
She peers into my features for a few seconds more. "I’ll leave you to it." She squeezes my hand one last time before she turns and walks out.
Christian guides me to a chair, and I sink into it. He pulls off the covers of the plates, then places one of them in front of me. I glance down at the pasta, and my stomach rumbles.
He pours a little wine into a glass for me, then points at my plate, "Eat."
He places the other plate in front of the other setting, then takes his seat. He begins to eat with gusto, scooping up the pasta with his fork, guiding it to his mouth, before he chews and swallows. The strong tendons of his neck flex as he drinks from the wine glass. My husband is not just handsome… He’s virile and so gorgeous to look at that it hurts.