Page 32 of Heartless Vows

“My father did the same.”

He drops a manilla envelope into my lap. I stare at it for a moment before understanding seeps into me. My brain accepts the new information and works it into whatever code must be running in the back of my mind, because I speak words that actually make sense despite the fatigue tugging at my limbs.

“We should study these for clues why they’re so desperate to marry us in a rush.”

After an extended moment of quiet—or maybe I fell asleep without meaning to—Giorgio agrees with me and puts both stacks into the glove box.

“We’re not going to my father’s lawyer,” he says.

I jolt awake and meet his gaze. My belly flips at the unreadable expression on his face.

“Why?” I ask.

“I have my own, but her office is a few more streets north, so just relax for a bit. I’ll wake you when we get there.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course,mia topolina.”

“Why?”

“I need you awake and ready for the wicked things I plan to do to you.”

Magma boils in my core, scorching my frozen, jumbled insides, and in my mania, I smirk and lean my head back.

“It seems I’m safe for now, then, because I am beat.”

Despite—or maybe because of—Giorgio’s presence filling the vehicle, I drop into an exhausted sleep without warning. When phantom screams ring in my ears, I reach out, terrified I lost my brother in the darkness, and sigh in relief when thick, masculine fingers weave within mine. Even though I know they aren’t Tristan’s, I cling to the hand as though the owner may lead me to safety.

I trust Giorgio Vivaldi on a soul-deep level. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I do. I don’t know if it’s because first impressions have lasting effects, or if more recent events have led me to believe he’s someone I can lean on.

Which might be why, when my senses slowly return to the corporeal world, I find my head resting on his shoulder. In my sleep, I leaned over the center console and wrapped myself around his arm. With his fingers still woven in mine, our hands in my lap, and all the weight of my upper body on his shoulder,he can’t be comfortable, but he maneuvers through the busy city streets as though he doesn’t have a woman plastered to half his body.

I sit up and wipe my face, horrified when drool smears over my chin.

He refuses to release my hand, and I can’t force my fingers to let him go, so I fumble around in my bag with my nondominant hand until I find my tissues. I wipe my face and tug a few fresh ones out of the box before dabbing at the wet spot I left on his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” I say in a voice still thick with sleep.

“I’m not.”

His unexpected response steals the rest of my apology. I swallow and wish I had a bottle of water to clear my throat. After drying his shirt as best I can, I shove the used tissues into a side pocket of my bag and look out the window for the first time.

As I recognize several buildings and where we are in relation to his father’s physician’s office, skepticism clears away the last dregs of sleep from my mind. Shadows span over the streets, but not in the right direction for morning. A glance at the dash shows we’re way past lunchtime.

Alarm surges through me. I meet Giorgio’s eyes.

“I thought you were going to wake me when we got to your lawyer’s office?”

He lifts a brow and smirks before returning his attention to the windshield.

“We’re not there yet, so there was no need to wake you.”

I blink.

Did he drive around in circles for hours just so I could sleep?

I discard the thought. There’s no way Giorgio Vivaldi would do something so nice. Not for me. Not when he’s made it perfectly clear he’s eager to sign prenups just so he can have his way with my body.

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