Page 13 of Claimed By the Enemy
I don’t reply, because the honest response would reveal more than I’m ready to admit.
That he’s absolutely right.
After Raff leaves, I sit alone in my office, staring at the threatening letter.
Marriage was the most efficient solution. That’s what I told Raff. That’s what I keep telling myself.
But then why can’t I stop thinking about all the times she’s been in my arms? The hotel room where she challenged me, drunk and defiant, stripping away every wall I’d built.
The wine cellar in Italy, where she called me ruthless before I silenced her with my mouth, our anger turning into something desperate and raw.
And that night after the attack, the way she looked so small in my guest room, her usual fire completely extinguished, asking me to stay like she was afraid I’d say no.
I should have left. Should have posted security outside her door and walked away. Instead, I stayed because seeing her hurt did something to my chest I didn’t want to examine.
Christ. Am I really doing this to protect my reputation? Or because the thought of someone hurting her again makes me want to burn the whole fucking city down to find them?
Either answer is dangerous. But only one of them explains why my hands shake when I think about that text message.
The house is dark when I pull into the driveway, most of the windows showing no signs of life.
***
The house is dark when I pull into the driveway, most of the windows showing no signs of life. It’s nearly midnight—later than I intended to stay at the office, but the office of a CEO is unpredictable on most days. Also, I needed to think, to process the reality of what I’ve done.
Sophie Bellini is my wife.
The thought still feels surreal, like something that happened to someone else. This morning, I was a single man with a house guest problem.
Tonight, I’m legally bound to a woman who would probably slit my throat in my sleep if she thought she could get away with it.
The kitchen light is on when I let myself in through the back door. I expect to find Patrice cleaning up from dinner, but instead I find Sophie.
She’s standing at the counter with her back to me, reaching for something in one of the upper cabinets. The position stretchesher arms above her head, pulling her crop top tight across her chest and exposing a strip of smooth skin at her waist.
She’s wearing sleep shorts that barely qualify as clothing and a top that covers even less. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, and her feet are bare against the marble floor.
The sight of her hits me like a freight train.
I should leave. Should turn around and go upstairs before she notices I’m here. But I can’t seem to make my feet move.
“I can feel you staring.”
Her voice cuts through the kitchen like a blade. She doesn’t turn around or stop reaching for whatever she’s trying to grab.
“Just admiring my wife,” I say, surprised by how rough my voice sounds.
“Don’t call me that.”
“It’s what you are now.”
Sophie finally turns to face me, and the impact of seeing her from the front is even worse. The crop top is thin enough to show the outline of her nipples, and the shorts sit low on her hips, revealing the gentle curve of her stomach.
My mouth goes dry.
“I’m your prisoner,” she says. “The ring doesn’t change that.”
I move closer, drawn by something I don’t want to name. Sophie doesn’t back away, but her chin lifts in that familiar gesture of defiance.
