Page 82 of His Bride

“Didn’t you?” He raises a brow.

“No. I told you?—”

“And I told you we’d work something out if you wanted to.” His voice is pitched low, just for me. “I’d say nice dress, but…”

“But what, Caelian?”

“It’s not you.”

I grab his jacket off my shoulders and shove it at him. “Did you come over here to mock my fashion sense?”

“More, the lack thereof.”

I glare at him. “Go away.”

“No, I’m gonna stay.”

“And what?” I snap. “Be my personal fashion police spokesperson?”

“Giana, if I was that, I’d arrest you, strip search you, do some mutually beneficial mauling, and dress you properly.”

“So, Mr. Fashion Cop,” I say, sarcasm high, “you don’t like the dress?”

“Didn’t say that. I appreciate the dress. I just don’t appreciate how every man in this place is getting an eyeful of what’s mine.”

“I’m not?—”

“I just think, since you’re calling me out on my fashion police credentials, that you could do this better,” he says. “Though, how you’re looking at me, the lust under the anger? It turns me the fuck on. Dial on high, electricity-to-cock situation flowing. Because you want me.”

“You’re seeing things.”

“I saw him touching what isn’t his. That get you off?”

“Fuck you, Caelian.” I shudder, remembering Aurelio’s finger pushing into me unwanted. Hurting me.

“So, why let him? Why let him anywhere near you?”

“I don’t?—”

“I swear to God, New York.” Caelian steps right up to me, looking down, raw power radiating from him. “If you say you don’t have a choice one more time, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”

His gaze roves over me, smoldering and intense. I can't look away from him or ignore the possessive flare in his eyes. He’s looking at me like I’m perfect, lush, his. Like I make his world turn. He’s so infuriatingly sure of us, of our place together, while I’m fighting him, fighting the very essence of my soul screaming that he’s right. That we’re meant to be together. But that doesn’t change the impossible situation I’m in.

I harden my heart because, otherwise, I might fall apart. “What do you want?”

“You mean why am I talking to my wife? Maybe wondering why you’re here with another man?” Once more, his eyes graze over me. “You letting him dress you now?”

“Stop.” I glance around. “You need to leave. If he sees me with you?—”

“He’ll hurt you?” He grabs my chin and turns my face, studying me. “Wearing a lot of make-up, New York.”

“Stop.” I pull away.

“Did he hurt you?” There’s venom in his voice.

“Please leave me alone.”

“Where is Cristiano? Your father?”

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