Page 12 of Iron Bride

“You wouldn’t understand,” she whispered.

She tried to get up, but I placed a hand on her shoulder, keeping her down. She didn’t put up much of a fight, but surrendered, as she winced from the pain of her stitches. There was no reason to fight me.

I had never been in this situation before. Not in a position to hold a woman in my hands. The need to comfort, protect, and togivewas overwhelming.

I placed a kiss on her forehead, and rolled over to my side, pulling the blanket up to cover her bare thighs.

She gazed at me with confusion, her eyes begging for answers to questions she hadn’t asked.

“Sleep, love,” I whispered. “We’re going to have a long day tomorrow.”

I rolled over to the nightstand, flicking off the light switch to the room and plunging us into darkness. I turned over, emboldened by a new resolve, and took her in my arms. With my bicep beneath the crook of her neck, her cheek on my chest, I felt her fall into slumber as I stared at the dark ceiling.

As my wife slept in my arms, I contemplated the strange enigma of Giovanna Eugenie Green.

Chapter four

Mrs. Green

Gia

Islept the day away and woke up cold in an unfamiliar bed, unsure if the previous night had just been a fever dream.

Pills, a glass of water, and a covered plate of toast and eggs was left on the nightstand along with scrawled instructions on a white piece of paper.

A woman came in nurse’s scrubs, offering to help me shower but I’d shooed her away. Still, she lingered, per “Mr. Green’s instructions.”

I was clothed, fed, my bandage changed, before a housekeeper came in and gave me a little curtsy.

“Mrs. Green,” she said demurely. It took a moment to realize she was talking to me, and that Aunt Kira wasn’t somewhere, skulking about. “Mr. Green said he’d return for dinner and wanted you to acclimate to your new surroundings. Would you follow me? I’ll give you a tour of the penthouse.”

I was Mrs. Green, now. And he was Mr. Green.

I had lost another part of myself and become a part of him. One more part of me, lost to an Irish serpent.

The housekeeper showed me around my new prison. It wasn’t a long tour. After all, it wasn’t a mansion. Just a penthouse, with five bedrooms, a formal and informal living room, a grand dining room, expansive restaurant-style kitchen, four staff members, and a gym.

There was a lovely balcony that I could fling myself from if things got dire. Over seventy floors up, I’m sure it would be painless.

When the maid, whose name I wasn’t ready to commit to memory—call it a sense of denial—left me alone, I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, and called the only person I could trust.

“Marco?” I said, before he had a chance to greet me.

“Are you okay?” he said without a greeting.

I began crying. Bawling, in fact.

I wasn’t okay. Nothing was okay. Nothing would everbeokay again.

“Gia?” he asked, quietly over the phone, when I didn’t stop.

“I don’t know how to get out of this,” I wailed. “I don’t know what to do. Tell me what to do, please!”

“Gia…”

Marco Rossini was the only friend I had. The only person I could trust. I needed him. I needed him so badly that it hurt.

“He’ll never let me go,” I cried. “He’ll never let me out of this place.”

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