Page 73 of Married with Mayhem

“What?” I blink at her in shock. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

She sniffs and pulls my jacket more tightly around her body. “First, I started a mafia war in New York that sent you running for your life and now I’ve corralled you into matrimony to save your family from my uncle.” She looks at the floor and sniffs again. “I’m a human wrecking ball.”

“You’re not a wrecking ball.”

“A stick of dynamite then.”

Despite the serious topic, I snort out a laugh. The humor fades in a hurry.

It’s not lost on me that Sabrina seems to believe this wedding happened so she could save me and my family from Vittorio’s vengeance. Telling her the truth, that her uncle was planning to bargain her away to the next convenient bidder, will make her feel far worse about the situation.

My brother was wrong about something. Nico once joked that I want to be the only one Sabrina is indebted to.

Not true. I don’t want her to feel obligated to any man, not even me.

I just want her.

This thought is nothing new and trying to bury it in the bowels of my brain hasn’t been effective. Sometimes I feel like I’ll go off the fucking deep end if I can’t have her.

Yet I have no plans to act on this tonight, not while she’s miserably sniffling in her sexy bridal gown with her uncle’s men listening right outside.

The sight of Sabrina in pain hurts like nothing else. With no vulgar intentions in mind at all, I rise from the bed, walk over and put my arms around her.

She melts against me with eagerness. She rests her cheek against my chest and allows me to hold her for a moment. I can’t help the fact that my dick thinks it’s party time and tries to bust through the zipper. All I can do is try to keep her from feeling it. I’ll probably need to go jerk off a few times to get my head right.

“You’re not a wrecking ball,” I say and prop my chin atop her soft hair. “We’ll figure this out, okay?”

She nods and sniffs again. “How’s your face?”

“I think getting clocked in the cheek with the butt of a gun is an improvement.”

Sabrina tips her head back to peer up at me. She wrinkles her nose. “It isn’t.”

“In that case, do you have any more ibuprofen? This shit hurts.”

She brightens and releases me. “It’s a point of pride that I never run out of ibuprofen.”

As she kneels beside her suitcase and starts digging through the contents, mounds of brightly colored articles of clothing get tossed aside. She pushes a bottle into my hands, then goes to the door and flings it open before I can object.

Vittorio’s men turn around, gaping into the room with surprise.

“We need some ice,” Sabrina declares. “Go and fetch it.”

They’re still staring when she slams the door in their faces again. Tending to my facial wounds has given her new purpose. Once the ice is delivered, she uses a bathroom hand towel to make an ice pack.

“Lie down,” she says and tries to press the thing to my face.

“No thanks. I can sit.” I take the towel from her and hold it up to my cheek.

Her mouth twists with irritation that I’m failing to be a good patient. Then she sighs. “I need to change. You would not believe how uncomfortable this dress is.”

Every profane comment that blazes through my mind is stifled while Sabrina sheds the tux blazer, collects some pajamas, and disappears into the bathroom.

Thirty seconds later, she reappears. She’s still wearing her dress. And there’s a really weird look on her face.

She heaves a sigh. “My mother made me suck in my breath to get the zipper closed and even then it was quite the squeeze.”

I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with this information.

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