His lips tighten into a line, and he takes my hand and pulls me down a small set of steps. We turn and enter the bedroom, all decorated with flowers and candles, with a bucket of ice beside the bed where a bottle of champagne sits untouched. Rose petals are strewn across the white bedspread. My heart lurches into my chest, and I’m so lightheaded I barely keep my feet. I wish I hadn’t been sick already. I want to puke again, but my stomach is empty.
“You should get some sleep,” King says, turning away.
“Aren’t you going to collect your prize?” I ask, cringing at how childish and scared I sound even as I try for a taunting edge to my voice.
King lets out a quiet scoff. “Believe it or not, the last thing I’m interested in right now is your cunt.”
I wince at his harsh tone and crude words, even as a swell of euphoric relief rises inside me. “You’re not going to punish me?”
King doesn’t speak for a minute. He loosens his tie and slowly pulls it free of his collar. “You think sex is a punishment?” he asks at last, not bothering to watch my response as he folds his tie in fourths.
“For a girl,” I answer honestly.
He shakes his head but doesn’t speak as he slides out of his jacket, turning his back to hang it over the back of a chair before he begins undoing his cufflinks. “You really are a virgin, aren’t you?” he says, watching me in the mirror.
“I am, but…” My eyes catch on the gun tucked in the waistband of his slacks, and I swallow hard. He might be new to the Life, a lowly soldier, but he’ll deal with things the way mafia men do. And he’ll treat me the way mafia men treat their wives. He’s my husband now, after all. He might spare me tonight, but no matter what I do or say, he’s not going to spare me forever. Our families will expect a baby to cement this union. He’s going to force me to do what good wives do no matter what I say. So why even try to explain my fears?
“What?” he asks, his hands going still. He stares at me in the mirror, and I sink onto the edge of the bed, avoiding his gaze.
He’s a ruthless Valenti. The most mercy I can hope for is that he’ll find a mistress soon, like my father did after marrying my mother.
“Nothing,” I say. “Don’t worry. You got what you paid for. I’m as pure as freshly fallen snow. Go ahead and ruin me.”
He moves to the bed and sits down beside me, and I tense. He watches me for a long minute, then reaches to gather my hair and drape it over my shoulder. Without a word, he slowly begins to unbutton the long row of buttons down my back, his fingers gentle. But I know what they’re capable of.
“You’re shaking,” he says quietly.
“No shit,” I say. “You would be, too, if you were the sacrifice to pay for all the murders your family had committed.”
“I don’t want to hurt you, Eliza,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “Whatever our families have done to each other, that’s on them, not on us. I don’t know about you, but I have enough sins of my own to pay for without paying for the sins of our fathers.”
I don’t answer. I can’t absolve him of this. His family destroyed mine. If my brother had lived, everything would have been different. He could have saved us all if he’d lived past sixteen.
But he didn’t have the chance—because of this man’s family. How can I forgive him for that? And how do I know he’s not lying through his teeth, getting me to let my guard down so he can hurt me even worse than when I’m expecting it?
King’s fingers stop unbuttoning at my lower back. Their tips brush across the bare skin beneath my dress, and I freeze, a little hiccup of fear racing through me even as warmth shimmers through me. The conflicting sensations, my body getting pleasure while my mind screams no, paralyzes me. I feel like I’m floating above, watching this and wanting to become a giant like Godzilla, to rip King away and crush him in my fist and hurl him across the ocean.
“Eliza?” he whispers. When I don’t answer, he takes my chin gently and turns my face toward him. His dark eyes search mine, but I can’t look. I squeeze my lids closed, my throat suddenly aching and tears stinging the backs of my eyes. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head.
He slowly reaches up with his other hand, brushing his thumb along the fringe of my lashes. Shame burns through me. He knows I’m crying. He knows I’m weak, and broken, and all the things I try so hard to pretend I’m not. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his knuckles stroking my cheek.
I take a shaky breath. “I just… I’m not ready, if that’s okay.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long minute. So long that I have to know what’s going through his mind, or at least a glimpse. I open my eyes, blinking away the tears. His brow is creased with a frown, but it’s not an angry one. It’s more… Confused. And that’s worse.
“I did what you asked,” I say. “I stayed by your side and acted like your wife, like I was happy. You said I could choose my reward.”
“For your reward, you want me not to touch you?” he asks.
“I’ve just never had any desire,” I say, trying to make him stop studying me like he wants to cut me open and expose all my feelings. “I think there’s something wrong with me. It’s like that part of me is frozen. I never developed those feelings.”
“What feelings?” he asks, gently tugging the dress down over my shoulders.
“You know,” I say, clutching the material to my chest and casting my eyes down. “Sexual feelings.”
His hand falters only a moment. “Oh,” he says. “Is that why you got hammered tonight? You think it’ll make sex better? Because I assure you, it won’t.”