Page 17 of The Merciless Don's Bride

Renata smiles, “Okay, Cassie. I’ll go and get started on preparing something delicious for your first dinner here. See you later.”

She walks away, leaving Cassandra and I standing in the hallway.

“Would you like me to call you Cassie as well?” I question.

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t say my name at all,” she replies tightly.

“Noted.”

I move her along before she can start thinking too much. Two younger women are waiting just down the hall, the maids.

“Cassandra, this is Lila and Ana,” I introduce.

They nod respectfully.

“They’re assigned to you,” I continue. “Anything you need, day or night.”

Cassandra’s mouth tightens, “I don’t want anyone to wait on me like some dainty princess.”

‘What you need is irrelevant,” I state.

“Because I’m your prisoner?” she challenges.

“Because you’re my wife,” I correct. “But you can easily be treated as a prisoner if you’re not careful. Remember that, Cassandra.”

Her jaw twitches, the fierce expression on her face telling me she wants to argue some more. But she falls silent, breaks eye contact. I can imagine just how much she hates all of this. Being cared for by me. Being trapped. I almost feel bad for her. Almost.

Finally, we reach the grand staircase. I lead up her up, our footsteps echoing.

“The wing is private,” I tell her. “No one comes up here without my permission.”

She swallows, glancing down the long, dimly lit corridor like it’s a noose tightening around her neck. I stop in front of a heavy oak door and push it open.

“This is your room.”

Large, elegant, with a four poster bed draped in dark linens. The windows overlook the gardens. A fireplace crackles in the corner, throwing golden light over everything. I watch as she exhales a breath of relief, stepping inside slowly.

“What?” I ask, referring to the relief on her face.

“I thought you’d force me to stay in the same room with you,” she admits.

I smirk, “Would you like that, Cassandra?”

“No,” she hisses. “I don’t expect you to have any morals, but if you even think about touching me, I’ll blow your head off.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, amused, but my smirk fades as I study her. She’s trying not to look at me. Shoulders tense, chin lifted just enough to feign defiance.

She’s not afraid, just pissed. And oddly composed for someone in her situation.

Curious.

I close the distance between us until her breath fans against my lips, shallow and uneven.

She stiffens when my arousal presses against her stomach, and I don’t miss the sharp hitch in her breath.

Control. Tension. Desire. All blooming between us like a storm held back by threadbare restraint.

I lean in, my lips brushing the shell of her ear, and murmur—

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