He’d walked away.
“After humiliating you, idiot,” I tell myself and roll onto my side.
And besides, he’s taking more tomorrow. He will force me to marry him. And he will finish what he started that night. He’s not walking away this time. I have no doubt.
But that’s not what has me worried.
He’s right that my denying that I’m attracted to him, that I want him, is a lie. Even now, I shudder at the thought of him on top of me, the feel of him, his weight, pressing against me. The idea of him inside me makes my belly flutter. I hate myself for it, too. But it’s the truth, and if I lie to myself, aren’t I giving him that piece of me too? He’s already taking enough.
Give me what I want and when the time is right, I’ll let you go.
Do I believe him? Would he let me go?
And when will the time be right? After one year? Damian chooses his words with care. I am very aware of that.
But there’s something else. Something about the way he looked when I asked him if I was supposed to die in payment for his sister’s death. His father may have decided that to be my fate, but Damian has not. Maybe, like he said, there is something human left inside him.
I need to be smarter.
Better.
More cunning.
I need to be like them. I need to learn from them, from father and son.
Sons.
And sister? Where does Michela stand in all of this?
And ultimately, why does Damian need me? For the foundation? It’s written in the foundation’s bylaws that only a blood descendent can inherit The Valentina Foundation. The foundation will dissolve, and any remaining funds donated to the various charities should the Valentina line somehow end. He can’t kill me, or the foundation goes to my uncle, to Liam, or even Simona.
My father was the eldest of the brothers, so it went to our line, but if I hadn’t survived the accident, it would have gone to my uncle, then Liam and his kids or even Simona if it came to that. There’s no risk of it dissolving.
But he needs me to keep control of it.
I roll onto my back and stare up at the lavender canopy over my bed. A vain part of me wonders if he chose it to match my eyes. He seems infatuated by them.
I groan. I have to stop being such an idiot when it comes to Damian Di Santo. And I need to find a way out of his bed tomorrow night. Not because I don’t want to be there. I do. And that’s exactly the problem.
Because there’s more at stake than my body.
5
Damian
“What the hell is that doing here?” I ask of the gown Elise is lifting out of its garment bag. The two women who have been hired to do Cristina’s hair and makeup stand by and watch while pretending to unpack their gear.
“Your father thought it would be appropriate,” Elise says.
I look at it. I should turn away but can’t. Instead, my gaze locks on the dark stains. On the torn, charred once-white lace.
My stomach heaves.
I meet Elise’s gaze. She’s watching me. I take a step toward her, towering over her. She leans away.
“Do you think it’s appropriate for my bride to wear the wedding gown my sister died in?” She may not have died that night, but she may as well have. Annabel was gone. We all knew it. Machines kept her alive after the accident.
“Your father—”
“Is senile and dying and most importantly, no longer your master. Be very careful, Elise.”
“Sir, I—”
“Give me your key to Cristina’s room.” I hold out my hand.
She clenches her hands together, unsure what to do. Elise has run this house for as long as I can remember. Even when my mother was alive, my father relied on Elise’s cruelty and always had an ally in her. She ruled over my mother, too.
“Key. Now. Before I tell you to pack up your things and get the fuck out of my house.”
She fumbles with the key on the chain. It was a mistake to give it to her. And I’ll need to have the locks changed anyway. I don’t trust her not to have made a copy for my father.
Lips pressed together she hands me the key.
“You make a mockery of my sister’s memory. Take that thing and go.”
She hurries out, and I pocket the key, then turn to the women. “Simple. I don’t want her overdone.”
“Yes, sir.”
I find the dress I’d chosen in its box in a corner. I pick it up, carry it to the bed, and unpack it. I feel the women’s eyes on me as I arrange it on the bed, thinking how appropriate it is. I set the shoes on the floor at the foot of the bed and turn to the women, who stand ready.
“Nothing underneath.”
If they find that strange, they don’t comment.
Giving them a nod, I walk down the hall to Cristina’s room and unlock the door.
When I enter, she’s just coming out of the bathroom, steam spilling out behind her, a towel wrapped around her torso and one piled on top of her head.
She stops short when she sees me and defensively puts her hands to the knot of the towel.
I look at the tray Elise brought up earlier.
“Why didn’t you eat?”
“I don’t have much of an appetite.”
“Wedding jitters?”
“What do you think?”
It’s late afternoon, and the sun is just beginning to set. I wonder if she realizes she has one of the best views of the sunset from here.
“We won’t have dinner until late.”
“I’ll survive.”
“I don’t want you passing out.”
“I’m not that fragile. And if you’re referring to last night, that was different.”
“Suit yourself. Are you ready? The women who’ll prepare you are here.”
“I can prepare myself.”
“I’m sure you can, but tonight is special. It’s our wedding, after all,” I deadpan.
“Speaking of, isn’t it bad luck for the bride and groom to see each other before the ceremony? Although I guess why stop now? Bad is the only kind of luck I’ve had ever since the night you walked into my life eight years ago.”
“Leave the drama to my brother. Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Down the hall.” I go to the door and gesture for her to follow.
She slips into the closet and emerges a moment later wearing a sweater and a pair of jeans, then walks out into the hallway.
With a hand on her lower back, I guide her to the room where the women wait. I turn her to face me before I leave.
“Do I need to post a guard?” I ask in a voice low enough that only she’ll hear.
“I won’t go wandering around. I learned my lesson.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I’ll be back to take you to the chapel.”
“Chapel?” Her eyebrows arch.
“Of course. I’m Catholic.”
She looks confused. “Are you serious?”
“About being Catholic?”
“No, about the chapel. I mean, if you believe in God, which I don’t think you do, I’m pretty sure he’d condemn what you have planned.”
I give her arms a squeeze. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and I’ll be struck down by lightning.”