Page 72 of Coerced Wife

It’s exactly as Rachele said.

Oh, Saverio.

I rub a hand over my face. How could fate be so cruel to such a strong and virile man? If things were different, I have no doubt he would’ve had a child with Rachele by now—maybe two or even three—and she wouldn’t have been able to divorce him. Would it have been better for him though? You’d think he would’ve learned from his mistake to trap a woman in a loveless marriage. But this is how things are done in his world. He doesn’t know a different way.

I put the letter back in the envelope and leave it on the desk.

And then I wait.

I count the books on the shelves and divide the total by the number of shelves, and then I multiply that with the square root of the total. The exercises are futile and meaningless, but at least they occupy my mind and prevent me from going completely crazy.

It’s four o’clock when the beep of the alarm finally sounds.

A gush of air leaves my lips.

Please God, let it be him.

A key scrapes in the lock. The door opens and closes softly.

Silence.

The floorboards creak in the hallway, the sound moving closer to the light. A shadow falls over the threshold, bleeding through the open door, and a second later, Saverio looms in the door frame, looking larger than life itself.

My relief is so great a silent sob catches in my throat. The stress that’s been mounting for two hours crashes down on me, making me weak. I want to hit his chest with my fists and scream at him, but I remain perfectly calm as I study him for injuries.

He’s dressed in sweatpants and a black hoodie. His feet are bare. His hair is tussled, but otherwise, he looks as he does every other day. Strong. Untouchable.

At the sight of me, his pale eyes flare. The blue is like crystal that catches the light. No, they’re like the infinite depth of the turquoise sea that swallows all the light and reflects it from within.

“Why are you up?” A worry line divides his pinched eyebrows. “You should be in bed.”

I take a deep breath to keep my voice even. “Where have you been?”

His mouth pulls up in one corner. “Is this the kind of marriage we’re going to have? Every time I come home late, you’re going to ask where I’ve been?”

“Did Rachele know where you were?”

His mask drops in place. “She didn’t ask.” He advances to the desk. “She knew better than that.”

“I was worried sick about you. I thought that maybe—” I can’t even say it. “That maybe you won’t come home.”

“Anya,” he says softly, coming around the desk and turning the chair so that I face him before cupping mycheeks between his large hands. “You shouldn’t think like that.”

His warmth sinks into my skin, but the ice around my heart refuses to melt. “Then tell me where you’ve been.”

He purses his lips as a look of frustration comes over his features.

“If you woke up in the early morning hours and found my place next to you in bed empty, would you worry?” I ask.

He opens his mouth to say something, but I cut him short.

“We both know the answer to that. You’d barge into the kitchen with a gun in your hands.”

“It’s not the same,” he says in a gruff voice. “I can take care of myself.”

“If you waited for me from two in the morning, not knowing where I was or what I was doing, how would you feel?”

A spectrum of emotions runs through his eyes, going from panicked to flat-out murderous.

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