Page 32 of Captive Mafia Wife

This wedding gown was designed specifically for me.

But when? And by whom? I think of the delicate artistry of the miniature balloon. Could Fredrick have not only purchased this dress but ordered it to be custom-made too?

A dress like this…would take weeks for a team to make, a solo seamstress, months. My stomach sinks. Am I the disloyal one? I think of Callum’s and my fight last night, him reiterating that I needed to leave Norse Garden.

Did he specifically mean to leave home for Inverness? And if so, how long have he and Fredrick been planning my captivity? How far does my brother’s heartbreaking disloyalty stretch?

And people say I’m the one betraying the Kings.

The women who spent the last hour silently preparing me, pinning up my long hair, contouring my face with makeup, and dressing me swirl around me, nodding at their work, the crest of the house emblazoned in gold on the lapel of their tan sweater-vests.

At the sound of a knock on the door, they jump to attention, standing with spines straight and hands clasped behind them.

Fredrick appears in the doorway, commanding, “Leave us.”

“Stay,” I demand, trying to catch the eye of anyone, but all the women’s eyes are on him, just as it was in Glasgow whenever Fredrick was in the room.

This time, it’s only because he’s paying them, I tell myself. Not because of the way his powerful presence fills the room. Or how stunning he looks in the black tux he wears.

I watch him in the mirror. His eyes remain on me as he addresses the room. “Now.” One word from Fredrick, they scatter like kitchen roaches when the lights go on at night.

Cowards. If I were to be the lady of the house during my stay, I would get rid of those hideous khaki uniforms they wear and teach these women how to stand up to their boss.

Steeling my nerves, I grit my teeth, turning away from the mirror to face my captor. “Well. I did it. Did you do as you promised?”

He repeats my earlier demands. “Call off the wedding and send the guests away?”

“Yes.” I would only agree to wear this dress and stay for dinner if he ended this crazy plan he and my brother concocted.

“Not yet.”

“I’m wearing the dress.” The white heat of anger creeps over my face. “Why haven’t you held up your end of the agreement?”

“I will.” He moves closer. Those little hairs on my forearms stand on end, my braless nipples contract, sensitive against the cold sheen of silk. I can smell his cologne, a fragrance I find incredibly sexy, one I would buy for a husband if I had one. If I even wanted one, which I don’t. He comes even closer now, light flashing off the face of his handsome watch, putting a shine on his stylish black shoes. “You look amazing.”

“So do you,” I admit. “If you weren’t such a psycho.”

A dark-sounding chuckle escapes him. “Psycho? What makes you say that?” His footsteps echo through the empty room as he circles me.

“Um, let’s see…arranging a marriage in this day and age. Not informing the wife-to-be, much less asking her consent?—”

“Consent is a tricky word for me.”

I let the momentary fear this comment instills wash away, remaining stoic as I continue speaking. “Having a dress made to her specifications—I’m guessing since there’s no way my friends or Fiona would willingly let this happen to me, you’ve somehow tapped into my online pinboard for wedding ideas. You shouldn’t let that fool you. Every woman has one. Even women like me, ones who never want to marry.”

“We’ll see.” He leans forward, and I will myself not to cringe back. He takes a deep inhale.

“Are you…smelling me?”

“Yes. Amazing. You smell as good as you look.”

“See. Psycho. Path.”

“I know you taste even better than you smell.” His eyes lock on mine, and something in his dark, confident gaze sends a shock of electricity bolting to my core. “Wife-to-be.”

“Och, hell no. Let’s stop with all that nonsense right now. I may have agreed to dinner, but I certainly?—”

“Have you agreed to dessert?”

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