Page 108 of Hate Mates

Except one.

When we arrive, he doesn’t offer his hand, doesn’t even slow his pace as he walks ahead. Movement catches my eye, a flock of birds bursting from the trees, their dark, glossy wings shifting in perfect unison before scattering into the sky.

I pause, watching them disappear beyond the estate walls, free in a way I will never be.

“Starlings,” I murmur, the sight stirring my most precious memory. When my gaze finds Vincenzo’s, he’s watching me with a depthless stare, his expression unreadable.

The stables. The crate. The promise.

But then his lips curl in indifference. “They’re pests,” he says. “Noisy, invasive, overrunning places that don’t belong to them.”

My stomach twists, his cruel words confirming what I already know. The boy I once knew is gone.

I follow him, every step I take toward the house—or rather, the monument of opulence—is a step away from freedom.

Under normal circumstances, I’d marvel at the grandeur, the vaulted ceilings and spiraling columns that run along the entrance. The chandeliers glisten above, casting prismatic splashes of light across the lacquered floors.

But these are not normal circumstances, and this is not a home. It’s a prison.

“I was told to let you pick your own staff.” Vincenzo breaks the silence with a nonchalant comment, not even bothering to look back at me as he strides up the stairs, forcing me to follow. “I’ve arranged for three private chefs to come and do tastings tomorrow. Choose one.”

“Are there certain culinary styles you lean toward?”

We enter a large bedroom, classically adorned with mahogany furniture and a canopied bed that occupies most of the center space. I swallow hard, nerves prickling inside my veins, knowing what’s expected of me…as his new wife.

Vincenzo stops abruptly, and I almost knock into him. “I don’t give a fuck who cooks my meals, Ottavia. I don’t give a fuck about any of this, playing house with a wife I don’t need…or want.”

Those words slice through the air, not just cutting but maiming. Cold and detached, like the rest of my new life.

Silence hovers between us as I stare up at him. At over six feet, he’s a tall man, broad shoulders and a lithe muscularity that commands attention. His dark hair hangs perfectly against the strong angles of his face, framing cold eyes of icy blue I find myself avoiding whenever I get the chance. They’re too mesmerizing, like two exquisite orbs of magic that suck me into the dream where there’s a slight chance he might be a good husband.

Vincenzo Del Rossa is a beautiful man, but a monster’s heart beats inside his chest.

“Whoever you choose, whatever you do around this house, I have the final say.”

I nod. “Of course.”

“In everything.”

The warning’s loud and clear, making my heart clench in my chest, reminding me of my place. And it’s clear that, to him, I have no place here. No voice. No purpose but to be his wife on paper.

Seconds pass before he turns away from me, dismissive and cold.

“Vincenzo,” I call, my voice stronger than the shrinking violet inside me.

“What is it, wife?” he sneers as he turns to face me.

I square my shoulders as I saunter closer. “I’ve been raised to be subservient to my husband?—”

“Lucky me.”

“—but I’ve been taught that cowardice is not a trait to be worn proudly. To obey my husband, to be supportive and silent, doesn’t mean I won’t demand respect.”

A flicker of something passes through his icy eyes, perhaps surprise, or maybe annoyance. But just as quickly as it appears, it’s gone.

He tilts his head slightly, studying me, perhaps reassessing the woman he was forced to marry.

“Respect,” he repeats, weighing the word like a gold coin in his palm. “Respect is earned, not given simply because you now wear my name as a crown.”

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