Page 17 of Satin Empire

As I start working myself up to going through the bedtime routine and the inevitable whining about brushing his teeth, my phone vibrates. Happy for a distraction, I grab it and frown at the text.

Unknown: You said you didn’t have my number. Well, now you do.

I keep on staring, not sure what the hell to make of it, and a heat flows through my body. I shift slightly and Niccolo grunts, leaning to the other side and hugging some pillows, yawning again.

I could pretend like I don’t see it. I could delete the message and move on with my life. But I know who sent it, and I’m too curious to stop myself.

Alana: Are you stalking me now? Random texts are super creepy. How’d you even get this number?

Carlo: I have my ways. Don’t act like you mind. You’re happy I’m putting in some effort.

And he’s sort of right. It’s flattering that he went out of his way to contact me, but it’s also not a good sign. Half of me hoped that if I failed to convince Mom to let me out of this marriage, then he’d come through on his end.

I’m not optimistic.

Alana: I hope you’re messaging to say the wedding’s off.

Carlo: Nope, sorry, baby. We’re still on.

Alana: Don’t call me baby, or did you get over how young I am?

Carlo: Yep, poor choice of words. I’ll need a new nickname for you now. Something sexy. Sugar tits maybe?

I try not to laugh. What a freaking prick.

Alana: If you call me that, I will make your life a living hell.

Carlo: I have a feeling you’re already going to do that. Sugar tits.

Alana: I’m serious. You’re not funny.

Carlo: I bet you’re smiling and blushing, thinking about my hands covering your bare chest.

Well, okay, he’s right, but I’m not about to admit that. I take a few deep breaths, trying to figure out what is with this guy. One second, he’s calling me immature and acting like I’m the worst thing that ever happened to him, and the next he’s randomly texting me at night and calling me stupid nicknames.

It’s almost like he’s flirting, but he’s really bad at it.

Alana: Do me a favor, baby dick, and forget this number.

Carlo: We both know your nickname is far from accurate. And unfortunately I can’t, because we’re getting married soon. Still think you’re getting out of this?

Alana: I haven’t given in yet.

Carlo: You will.

I scowl at the phone and toss it aside.

Screw him. I don’t need this right now. It’s hard enough dealing with my own fucked-up family dynamic, much less getting weird semi-flirty texts from my future husband, a guy that’s fifteen years older and also allegedly hates me. Except he doesn’t hate me? And he likes my boobs? And he finds me attractive, which I definitely like.

What a confusing mess.

“Come on, kiddo,” I say, getting up and pulling Niccolo up with me. “You’re going to sleep.”

“Lana,” he moans. “Come on, it’s still early.”

“You have school tomorrow morning. You need sleep. Come on, upstairs, brush teeth, that whole thing.”

He complains, but he does it.

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