Page 62 of Captive Mafia Wife

“And a woman can do the same for her family.” She picks up her pace, eager to end the conversation, briskly moving toward our destination. “Don’t let this cause conflict between us. Let’s not ruin our day. We still have matching sweaters to purchase.”

I grab her hand, attempting to slow her down. “It’s an important conversation, Freya. You can’t keep pushing everything that makes you uncomfortable away. It will resurface. Best to face it head on.”

She tugs me along, keeping her pace brisk. “And I say, best not to ruin our day. There’s a time and place for hard conversations, and this is not that time.”

I pull her to a stop, forcing her to face me. “It’s never the time with you, Freya.”

Our gazes lock, fire and ice.

“I don’t know why it’s so important to you to figure out our future right now.” She flips her hair over her shoulder, her defense mechanism. “It’s not as if we’re married yet.”

If it were up to me, we’d have wed when she first walked into the castle. Frustrated, I say, “You wear my ring. You’ve confirmed your consent. A moment ago, you told me we’d marry soon.”

“And we will,” she stresses.

I’ve given her space, time, and understanding. Perhaps too much so. What she needs is to be told, to be dominated, like those seventy castle steps we’ll soon undertake; the woman needs to be conquered.

I pull her to a stop, forcing her to face me. “We will be married. You will be my wife. And you will stay home with our children.”

She tosses back her head, hair glittering in the sun, and laughs.

Chapter Seventeen

Freya

Though cold,the sun is out, making for a glorious crisp day. I’m still shocked I got him to consent to allowing us to walk this mile. Of course, a little Freya magic helped.

While getting dressed this morning, I conducted some research, tearing a page out of a local travel magazine. Hoping it would sway him, I handed the printout to him as we pulled away from the castle. Timing was part of my earlier caffeine-inspired plan; that way, he wouldn’t have too much time to overthink.

“Look!” I pressed brightly. “We have to walk the Royal Mile ourselves, with guards scattered around us, of course. Driving up to the castle will not do. It’s not the true tourist experience.”

“Walk? Hmm…” His brow is knitted ina firm no.

I pushed the glossy magazine page into his hands. “Here. Read this before you decide. Ken?”

He took the paper, scanning the words.

The Royal Mile, spanning 1.81 km and linking the iconic Edinburgh Castle to the majestic Palace of Holyroodhouse, is a happening hangout spot in the heart of Edinburgh's Old Town. As you stroll down its cobblestone lanes, you'll come across all sorts of cool stuff just waiting to be discovered:

You've got the impressive St Giles' Cathedral, standing tall and proud like a history buff whose intricate architecture tells tales of days gone by.

But wait, there's more! Underneath the bustling street lies The Real Mary King's Close, a hidden world full of twisty alleys and snaking staircases that spill secrets from ancient times.

Feeling fancy? Head to the Scottish Storytelling Centre to get lost in tales of dragons and knights and maybe even a modern-day legend or two.

And don't forget about the sleek and modern Scottish Parliament building - a far cry from the traditional buildings but representing the city's hip and trendy vibe.

While cars are still allowed on this road, it's mostly meant for leisurely strolling, so ditch your wheels and take in all the sights and sounds on foot.

Trust us, it’s dead brilliant this way!

The article was a little cheesy,but as he read, his brow eased. Craving a little freedom after being restricted to the grounds of Wee Inverness, I crossed my fingers as he returned the paper, saying he wasintrigued and would chat with security. I gave him a pre-emptive thank you kiss on the cheek for good measure.

Now, walking the Royal Mile together, hand in hand, the sun warming my icy cheeks, I can’t hold back my beaming smile. I’m a perfectly dressed tourist in my own country, with a handsome, frisky man at my side.

Crowds surround us on the street as we gather at the end of the sidewalk to cross over and reach the steep, curving cobblestone road leading us to the brown-and-gray stone castle.

A man stands opposite, facing us from the side of the road to which we are waiting to cross. My eyes pick him out of the crowd because of the toddler he holds. Her hair is dark, almost black—the opposite of mine. In contrast to her dark hair, her skin is porcelain.

---