Page 51 of Isle of Beauty

His smile widens. “Smile for the camera, little liar.”

He turns back to the guests, and glides his hand over mine, intertwining our fingers in a possessive hold. The cool metal of the ring on his finger feels like a brand, more effective than any bite marks. The feel of his hand in mine is too familiar, the memory of him doing just that in a park in London on a warm spring morning a lifetime ago is almost painful. This level of comfort is painful. The hope currently ravaging my chest is bound to hurt me. Deeper than the first time.

Pink colours my cheeks and my mouth go dry. The camera lights blind me, and I get a flash of another hand with another ring holding mine. The fit was too tight, the hand controlling and malicious.

The clicks of the cameras accelerate around me, painting my vision with white light and I can’t see where I need to go. People clap their hands, some male voices cheer for us, but my shoulders lock up, a full body shiver drowning me in cold sweat. Panic sets into my bones, down to the marrow. I’m rooted to my spot, breathing hard like I can’t get air into my lungs.

Pierce looks back at me, concern etched to his brow, then places his body in front of mine, effectively cocooning me in relative darkness and blocking my view of the guests and journalists. Fingers still interlaced, he places my hand to his heart, bringing my attention to him. He gently lifts my chin up with his other hand, connecting our eyes again.

Where I could read antagonism and wicked delight at getting one up on me moments ago, all I see now in the honey glaze is understanding. Patience. I’m reminded of Pierce, the man who listened to me ramble about my favourite pizza and rage about public transport not being safe for women.

“I’m here, Lana.” He murmurs, looking at me with intense focus. The corners of his eyes crinkle with fury, like he would battle the world to rid me of my panic. I can’t look away. “And I’m not going anywhere now that I’ve found you.”

He strokes my cheek with his knuckles and the soft touch contrasts with the powerful build of his body, currently caging me from outward threats. The idea of Pierce protecting me from a horde of gossip hungry journalists and blood-thirsty criminals is laughable. The man had probably never been in a fight, held a gun before training. Or seen blood and inflicted pain. I sink deeper in the fantasy of his protection. Lying to myself feels better than reality.

I nod, lost for words. I don’t feel like I’m in danger anymore.

Pierce directs me to the head of the table, his warm hand on my lower back. My panic recedes and I regain composure before we take our places. He doesn’t let go of my hand as we sit down. I don’t want him to. I tell myself I need the anchor of his skin on mine for show, to convince everyone at this dinner that our union is what we want, what will strengthen the bond of our families.

His thumb absentmindedly rubs soothing circles on the back of my hand, relaxing my tense muscles and soothing my heartbeat to a regular rhythm.

I’m not entirely sure what is an act and what is true anymore.

TWENTY-ONE

PIERCE

IT TAKES EIGHT DAYS TO MAKE A CRIMINAL

That fucking dress.

When Signore Moretti opens the doors to reveal my beautiful little liar wearing the same dress she did when I first saw her in London three years ago, my heart kicks up in my chest.

It hugs her hips perfectly and reveals those long legs I’ve been dreaming of wrapped around my head. My cock hardens in my suit pants and my mouth waters in expectation of making that dream a possibility. Knowing we wear the same colour, perfectly united without meaning to, satisfies a primal part of me that wants to claim her in any way possible for everyone to see.

Eight days. It all took but eight days to make a criminal out of me, to paint my skin with blood and my heart with the colour of the ashes of what I thought remained of my soul. Little seeds of doubt are already growing too thick inside me.

The display of violence Lana showed at her club should have disgusted me but it fucking aroused me and made my blood boil and I hate her for it. The emotion is a beast in my chest that demands I punish her again.

So far, I have more details on her crimes than I’d need to sentence her to life in prisonand not enough to do the same to the man who deserves it. The idea of her small frame locked up squeezes my throat until I can’t draw breath. Her bloody retribution was nothing but warranted. She only protected people she cares about. Out of all the thoughts I have about her, that one is the most jarring.

I shake my head to rid me of the protective instinct unfurling behind my ribcage.

She devours me with her hungry gaze and dares lying to my face about it. Fuck if I don’t enjoy her bark. She glowers at me like I’m a nuisance to her very life, but it’s nothing compared to what I feel for her.

As we make our way to our table, she stops dead in her tracks and her body shuts down in front of me. I don’t think; I just react and hide her body from prying eyes with mine. The world disappears around us and red paints my vision at anything inconveniencing her, which is ridiculous but I can’t help it. Everything is magnified since I stepped foot on this godforsaken island and claimed her.

Then I see it. The glint of the diamond of my ring on her finger. The murmur of my voice becomes a growl. “I’m not going anywhere now that I’ve found you.”

I don’t give a shit about anything else but that fucking ring on her finger, the sight a drug to my system getting me high on the power I have over her.

She gives me a slight nod and we make our way to the table.

The people gathered here form the weirdest melting pot I’ve ever seen. I recognise Mikhail Dobrev, an ambassador for the London Bratva, seated next to that politician that works closely with Lana, Senator Marquesi. To Marquesi’s other side is Angèle and Lino Santorini, Lana’s sister and brother-in-law, holding a casual conversation with Signore Ventura, the Italian mafia ambassador. Dobrev and Ventura have avoided each other all night but other than that, no animosity seems to be pouring from them.

I rub circles on Lana’s skin. The softness of her hand soothes me. Surprisingly, the reception goes well, the dinner is served quickly and the atmosphere is light.

“Finally, my Lana and her obsession, reunited as they always should have.” Giulia toasts and Lana kicks her under the table, drawing a smile from me. So my little fiancée has been thinking about me. I hope it’s as much or more than I have about her.

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