Page 16 of Silent Vows

“You were always covered in paint, even then.” His finger traces an old paint stain on my arm, and my skin erupts in goosebumps. The touch is innocent enough, but it feels intimate in a way that makes heat pool low in my belly. “Gio said you got that from his mother—she was an artist too.”

“I never knew that.” The revelation surprises me, momentarily distracting me from the fire his touch ignites on my skin. My grandmother died before I was born, and my father rarely spoke of her.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about your family. About this world.” His hand stills on my arm, but I can feel each individual finger like brands against my skin. “Things I’ll have to teach you.”

The words send heat rushing through me. It’s the way he says it—dark and promising—that makes my imagination run wild. What else could those hands teach me? What would his stubble feel like against my neck, my breasts, my?—

No. Reality crashes back like a bucket of ice water. Tomorrow I’ll bury my father. The next day I’ll marry this man—this dangerous, captivating man who fills every space he occupies with raw power and barely contained violence.

“I should get dressed,” I say abruptly, standing. But my foot catches on an errant shopping bag, and I stumble.

Matteo catches me before I can fall, one hand splaying across my bare back where the towel has slipped. His palm is hot against my damp skin, and I have to bite back a gasp. We’re too close again, my nearly naked body pressed against him. His cologne surrounds me, spice and sandalwood and danger,making my head spin. I can feel every hard plane of his chest under my palms where I’ve braced myself against him.

“Careful,piccola,” he murmurs, and the Italian endearment in that rough voice sends shivers down my spine. His thumb strokes small circles on my back, each movement making it harder to breathe.

“I’m not little,” I protest weakly, but I can’t seem to make myself pull away. My body is a traitor, wanting to arch into his touch like a cat.

“No,” he agrees, his voice low and rough, his other hand coming up to cup my cheek. His thumb traces my bottom lip, and I swear I can feel my pulse there. “You’re not.”

For a moment, I think he might kiss me. Part of me—a reckless, hungry part—wants him to. I want to know if his mouth is as dangerous as the rest of him, if he kisses with that same controlled violence that radiates from his every movement. Would he be gentle, treating me like something precious? Or would he devour me, marking me as his in every way?

My lips part involuntarily, and I hear his sharp intake of breath. His eyes darken to midnight, and his hand on my back presses me closer. Just a few inches and I could find out exactly how his mouth tastes, how that stubble would feel against my skin…

Instead, he steps back, putting a safe distance between us. The loss of his touch leaves me cold, but my skin still burns where his hands were. I watch him struggle to regain control, fascinated by the muscle jumping in his jaw, the way his hands clench at his sides.

“Get dressed,” he says, his voice controlled again but rougher than usual. “We have an early morning tomorrow.” He turns toward the en suite bathroom, already removing his tie. The simple movement shouldn’t be so goddamn erotic, butsomething about the casual display of masculinity makes heat pool low in my belly.

“And Bella?” He glances back, and the look in his eyes nearly stops my heart. Hunger and possession war with something softer, more dangerous. “The emerald nightgown. Wear that one.”

He disappears into the bathroom before I can respond, leaving me trembling in the middle of our bedroom. The shower turns on, and unbidden images flood my mind—water running down his muscled back, those powerful hands sliding over wet skin…

With shaking fingers, I dig through the La Perla bag until I find it—an emerald silk nightgown that would fall to mid-thigh. The material is impossibly fine, almost sheer, with delicate lace panels at the sides and a neckline that would plunge indecently low. It’s the kind of thing designed to seduce, to submit, to surrender.

The same color as the ring I saw him fidgeting with earlier. The ring that belonged to his dead wife.

I sink back onto the bed, surrounded by expensive clothes bought to replace everything I’ve lost. The sound of the shower seems to echo in my ears, along with the ghost of his touch on my skin. Tomorrow I’ll bury my father. The next day I’ll marry a man who makes me feel things I shouldn’t—desire and fear and a desperate kind of hunger I don’t want to examine too closely.

And tonight…tonight I have to decide if I’ll wear his dead wife’s color to bed. If I’ll play the role he’s casting me in—the replacement bride, the perfect donna, the submissive beauty meant to grace his arm and warm his bed.

Steam curls under the bathroom door, carrying his scent with it. I close my eyes, remembering the feel of his hands on my skin, the way he looked at me like he wanted to devour mewhole. It would be so easy to give in, to let myself be consumed by him. To wear what he wants and become what he needs.

But that’s not who I am.

My fingers find the black silk nightgown instead. The material is just as fine, just as seductive, but it’s my choice. Not his. Not his dead wife’s.Mine.

I may have to marry Matteo DeLuca, may have to share his bed and his name, but I won’t be a replacement for his ghosts. I won’t let him reshape me into someone else’s shadow.

As I slip the black silk over my skin, I hear the shower turn off. My heart races, but I lift my chin defiantly. Let him see that I won’t be so easily controlled. Let him learn that while he might own my body after tomorrow, my will remains my own.

The bathroom door opens, releasing a cloud of steam, and I brace myself for his reaction. Whatever comes next, I’ll face it on my own terms. In my own colors. In my own skin.

I am not Sophia. I never will be. And it’s time Matteo DeLuca learned that.

8

MATTEO

Rain pounds against the study windows, matching my dark mood. The funeral replays in my mind like a film I can’t stop watching—the heavy scent of incense mixing with too many lilies, the echo of footsteps on marble, the weight of a thousand calculating eyes watching our every move.

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