Page 62 of Twisted Vows

My morning routine passes in a blur, but when I notice spotting in my panties during a rare bathroom break at work, I absently note the date and take care of business before jumping back into the chaos of the emergency room.

When I tell Fiero my menstrual cycle began, his expression goes blank for a moment before his brain clicks back into gear. Disappointment flashes in his eyes, but he leans back against the bathroom doorframe and tugs me into his arms with a smirk on his face.

In a moment of weakness, I don’t fight back. Heaviness plagues my heart. Fatigue weighs down my limbs. Mental exhaustion muddles my thoughts. I decide it’s hormones and nothing more, but part of me clings to the disappointment he showed.

I don’t want kids. When I was a child, I fantasized about being a mom, but as I grew and tasted men’s cruelty, I lost the yearning to bring a fragile new life into the world. It’s not safe. I can’t take that risk or bear that responsibility.

But somewhere along the way, this stupid man stole into my heart and muddied the waters. Now I don’t know what I want.

“It’s okay,mia caramellina. There are many, many ways I can get what I want from you.”

He proves it. Over and over again. Night after night. And he does it so well I don’t admit when my period ends early. I should hate him for weaving his way so seamlessly into my life, but he becomes an addiction, and suddenly I understand his ridiculous proclamation. Humans aren’t drugs or alcohol, but the way I become dependent on him is similar.

Three more weeks pass as I drown myself in work. Even though I know ignoring my problems won’t solve anything, I use the emergency room as a shield. As perfect as my daily routine may be, I’ve still forced my sister to live under the mafia umbrella. She’s not safe. I failed to escape the dangers we grew up in.

When I consistently fall asleep every time I sit down, I finally relent and cut back on my overtime. Low-key nausea plagues me day in and day out. I lack my normal energy, and a dark cloud hovers over my head everywhere I go. I recognize the signs of depression but refuse to address them.

Almost eight weeks after he kidnapped me, Fiero pulls me out of my funk by dragging me out of bed and hauling me back to the boutique where we bought our wedding outfits. I eye him warily as he guides me into the dressing room.

A flash of relief comes and goes in his eyes so fast I wonder if I imagined it when I glare at him. He replaces it with a smug expression and pulls me tighter against his side.

“We’d better not be here for another wedding,” I snap.

“And if we are?” he challenges.

“No. I’m not marrying you again,” I declare.

He’s lost his fucking mind if he thinks it’s safe enough for him to marry Emma Lanza. As long as Seppi Capito is alive, she must stay in hiding. The moment Fiero legally weds his brother’s ex-fiancé is the moment that cruel bastard descends on our heads. That hell descends on the earth.

I turn to leave, but Fiero sweeps my feet out from under me and sits on the couch with me in his lap. With fury coursing through me, I ignore the wave of nausea and dizziness and elbow him in the chest, but he parts my knees and forces my legs around his hips before grabbing my nape and ass. Trapped with his semi-hard cock mashing my clit and his chest flattening my breasts, my attempt to escape only results in a pathetic wiggle. The friction threatens my control, so I fill my fists with his hair and glare into his handsome face.

“There’s my spicycaramellina. I missed this spark. You’ve been neglecting your husband recently, haven’t you?”

I scoff and turn my head, avoiding his kiss.

“No, I haven’t. You’re in my bed every night. Wasn’t it just last night when you—”

He slips his hand up from my nape, cups the base of my skull, and forces my face toward his for a scorching kiss. Pleasure arrows straight to my core. Need pulses between my legs. After weeks of his ruthless claiming, it shouldn’t affect me so much, but the soreness in my pussy feeds the masochistic tendencies of my body.

My brain turns to mush and drains out of my toes. When he finally pulls back, a whimper escapes my throat. He caresses his thumbs over my jaw and hip. The awe and delight in his hungry eyes melt my bones.

“Be careful what you say,mia caramellina, or I might reenact what we did last night right here in the dressing room.”

I bury my embarrassment under my anger.

“We’re already married. Can’t you just—”

“No. We’re going to this wedding today. Find something else to argue with me over,” he demands.

His dismissive attitude only infuriates me further. I clamp my teeth together and alternate between pretending as though he doesn’t exist and glaring at him as I try on different outfits.My suspicion grows as I review the selection. They don’t seem bride-like, but Fiero watches me with lascivious eyes, distracting me as I stand in nothing but panties before him.

When he says no to the fifth dress, I huff in exasperation and roll my eyes. He tries to hide his smirk behind his drink, but I see it and pile it onto my list of grievances.

For the first time in a long time, I feel alive during the day.

With a skeptical glance, I step into the pale green dress and shimmy it over my hips and fit my arms into the sleeves before checking the length of the skirt. It’s longer than I thought, and the fitted bodice tucks in my waist and lifts my breasts without pinching or digging into my skin.

When I turn to check out my profile in the full-length mirror, I fall a little in love with the dress. In the past, my depression always led me to lose weight, but with my sister’s cooking and Fiero’s watchful gaze, I’m as curvy as ever. The color and fit of the dress make me look vibrant despite the tired lines bracketing my eyes.

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