Page 161 of Bitter Poetry
“The guest bed was uncomfortable,” I mumble. If I were honest, I would admit I hated leaving his arms to go there in the early hours of yesterday morning. I had a flashback earlier. Being in his bed, even alone, made me feel safer.
His chuckle is low and husky and throws me. “Yeah? Must be that pea I put under the mattress.”
“Pea?” I’m tired… and baffled.
“Had to make sure you were a real mafia princess.” His lips whisper against my throat.
My sleepy mind plays catch-up. I chuckle. “You used to read a lot of fairy tales, Dante?”
“I had a German tutor when I was young. She was an absolute dragon who force-fed me Hans Christian Anderson.”
“She sounds like a great tutor.”
“She was, apart from the fairy tales, which my father did not appreciate, and which were promptly curtailed.”
I smile, enjoying this insight into the younger version of Dante. His father was pretty laid back from what I remember, but, yeah, it’s different for the men and the women in our world. Then again, I can’t see that the fairy tales had much of a softening effect on Dante.
On second thoughts, fairytales can be pretty macabre. I’m surprised they’re not a staple of learning for impressionable future made men…
How would it be if we had a son or a daughter? Would Dante still adhere to the mindset of gender roles, or would he be more relaxed?
My stomach takes a slow dip at the thought of carrying his child. It fills me with a desperate kind of longing for something just out of reach.
“Can you tell me what’s been happening?”
“I’m helping Ettore to look for you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
“That’s pretty crazy.”
“It is,” he says dryly.
“What’s the end game? Where do we go from here?”
“The end game is we take down Ettore by whatever means is necessary. Does that trouble you?”
His question throws me for the second time in as many minutes. “He killed—” I can’t even say it. I’m a married woman with a dangerous husband who’s on the warpath. I’ve already reached a decision and made a plan, one I’m still working on implementing. It’s dangerous, but the alternative frightens me more. I want so hard to believe in Dante, to trust that what he seeks to do is possible. “I want him to pay with his life.”
“And he will, I promise you. Your father and Jessica are on lockdown at their home for their safety. At this stage, Ettore doesn’t know where the threat might come from, and it’s a good sign that he isn’t directing any suspicions or malice toward them. I spoke to your father briefly, and while I was careful about what I said, I believe he understood that you were with me… Now, no more questions. It’s late, you need to rest.” He kisses the side of my throat once more. “In a moment of madness, I promised Christian I wouldn’t fuck you unless he was here. So you’re safe, in all ways.”
“You did?” That takes my thought train on an unexpected detour. “What about what I want?”
He groans and nips at my throat. “You want me to fuck you, baby? I’ll get him on a video call or something…”
Do I want him to fuck me?
Do I care about this promise?
I snort a laugh and, slipping out of his hold, swing my legs out of the bed. His eyes follow me into the bathroom before I shut the door.
“I promised Christian I wouldn’t fuck you unless he was here.”
I pace, asking myself how I feel about this development.
They’ve been talking about me, and I don’t hate that they have. Is this them saying they’re going to share me? That Christian wants to watch?
