Page 47 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream
The ceremony only feels like it was two seconds ago, though since then I’ve chatted my way through reception drinks and canapés, composed myself through photographs, and kept all my feelings buried throughout the meal and subsequent dancing.
I shook like a leaf all the way to the church this morning. I threw up the contents of my stomach on arrival, then continued to tremble as we walked down the aisle to the front of the room where Andreas was waiting. Even the sight of him standing so tall and muscular in his wedding suit—luxuriously tailored Italian cotton wrapped around a black soul—didn’t slow my racing pulse.
I only stopped shaking when—and this was the biggest surprise of the day—Andreas threw tradition to the wind and took hold of my hand. He cradled it in his inhumanly large palm throughout the entire ceremony, and it felt… comforting.
It made enduring the event I’ve dreaded more than anything else in my life almost easy. Not that I was able to concentrate on any of it with the tingles that crawled like a live-wire up my arm. I couldn’t stop thinking that, finally, I was getting what I used to want so badly: he was holding my hand. Andrew Stone was holding my hand.
But it wasn’t Andrew Stone. It was Andreas Corioni, the lying mobster who is using me to advance his own agenda, and ripping up my life and everything I’ve been working toward in the process. The scars on my thighs throbbed throughout the entire ceremony, and I ached to hide myself away with my kit. Somewhere no one would find me, so I could release all these horrifically enormous feelings raging around my body.
And now, as I watch Andreas catch my gaze from across the room and give me a look that I know means it’s time for us to leave, I’m feeling nauseous, anxious and panicked all over again.
I have a game plan. It’s all I’ve thought about since I unlocked my drawer. I’m going to give him a list of conditions. I know I can’t escape the wedding night sex. I know it’s my duty now to give him my virginity. ButI’m certain there’s a way we can do it so that he doesn’t see or feel the scars on my thighs.
I will insist on the lights being shut off, and I’ll be wearing the satin set I chose especially. The shorts can be removed at the very last minute and the top is long enough that it will cover my thighs should I need to use the bathroom.
Then, with any luck, once the wedding night is over and done with, he’ll be away a lot with his ‘work’ and I can feign sleep, headaches, period cramps… The list I’ve made is impressively long.
The goodbyes are a blur. I’m leaving my whole family to go north, permanently. I’ve only left New York one time, to visit Papa’s family in Italy, so the thought ofmovingto a completely new state is nerve-wracking. But, while my sisters’ tears run down their faces, my eyes remain dry. The terror of what’s to come is too close to the front of my mind to allow me to see anything else.
His palm heats my elbow as he guides me to the waiting car and I settle uneasily into the back seat. A dark and deathly shadow, he moves around the back of the vehicle and slides in beside me. I automatically turn to look out of the window to wave goodbye to my family, and I don’t turn back again the entire ride.
When we draw up to the hotel, I wait for Andreas to open the door then I step out onto the sidewalk, avoiding his gaze. His palm yet again burns, but this time on the small of my back as we walk into the hotel lobby. The concierge simply nods at Andreas and wehead straight for the elevators. Once inside, I face the doors and chew my lip. My knees are knocking together I’m shaking so badly.
I haven’t looked at him once since we left, but his presence is overwhelminglythere. Unavoidablyeverywhere.
I watch the numbers rise and rise, until we reach what seems to be the very top of the building, then the doors glide open to a sea of silence—something completely foreign in New York City.
My heels click on marble tile then stop at the only door on the floor. It’s black, patent lacquer, illuminated by soft down-lights and up lights hidden in the floor and ceiling. It has ‘obscenely expensive’ written all over it.
Andreas flashes a card at a spot on the door and the click of a lock sounds. He pushes it open and the most opulent hotel suite I’ve ever seen in my life is revealed inch by inch. It is a riot of textures. Velvet, satin, leather and cashmere, in black, silver, gold and emerald tones—the exact shade of my bridesmaid dresses.
My eyes stretch wide and I swallow back admiration at the extravagance, the opulence, the impeccable taste of whomever decorated this place. Then a sense of unease tickles the base of my spine. Apart from the green accents, this place is not me at all. It’s shadowy, mysterious andsexy.
It’s sensual and filled with dark promise.
“You can come in, you know.” Andreas’ voice makes me jump and I look into his eyes for the first timesince we left. They are slightly playful and designed to put me at ease.
Whatever resentment I have toward him, whatever hatred I feel in the dead of night and starkness of day, he’sgoodat this.
His expressionsmanipulate. His touchnumbs. His wordsseduce.
I step tentatively over the threshold and hear a long slow breath issue from his lungs. He reaches past me and closes the door. The lock clicks back into place, sounding the death knell for my life as I know it.
I stand in the center of a living area looking out at a vibrantly lit Manhattan as he moves about in the shadows.
My voice sounds small in the cavernous room. “Is my night bag here?”
He stops mid-stride and faces me. “Master suite.” He jerks his head toward a door. It is painted in matt black which almost camouflages the intricate cornicing on its outer edges. “Through here.”
My heart jumps up into my throat and I follow him through the door into another deeply textured room. At least this one has accents of pale gold, cream and mustard, but it does nothing to lessen the dark sense of foreboding that hangs around the place like a bad smell.
The bed seems unfeasibly prominent in the center of the room and my heartrate picks up instantly. I curl my fingers into my palms to distract me from my racing pulse. Ican’thave a panic attack now. My gaze drops tomy bag which has been seated in the middle of a bench at the foot of the bed.
I follow Andreas’ arm to an open door and see an illuminated waterfall shower beyond it. I swallow hard. My throat is so dry it hurts.
“Drink?”
I shake my head on impulse, then stop, remembering my painfully dry throat. “Um, maybe a glass of water?”
