Page 21 of Forcibly Sold to the Bratva
I select a simple blue sundress from the suitcases and pin my hair back with a clip, leaving it half down. In the holiday mood, I decide to put on some makeup and wear a pair of earrings.
When I exit my room to find him waiting, I see Ilariy’s eyes glaze over as he looks at me. He clears his throat before meeting my eyes. “You look…pretty,” he says.
“Thanks,” I whisper, suddenly feeling hot. In those linen pants and crisp white shirt, he doesn’t look half-bad himself.
***
Before dinner, we decide to stroll through the streets for a while and come across a bustling market. Colorful stalls sell everything from handcrafted jewelry to embroidered dresses, and the street performers are a delight to watch. I’m so hit by the sounds, the colors, the delights, that my neck cranes in every direction.
“See something you like?” Ilariy asks when I pause to admire a silver bracelet with delicate sea turtle charms.
“No,” I lie, moving on quickly. He buys it anyway, along with a hand-painted scarf I lingered over. I try to wave him off, to tell him I don’t need these gifts, but he insists.
Every time I take delight in something, I find him watching me. More than once, I feel his hand accidentally brush against mine, and feel him stiffen.
I don’t know what it is. The tropical air, being away from the city, or finally having the chance to let loose, but out here, neither of us is hostile. I notice that Ilariy has a side to him I never expected him to have. He speaks fluent Spanish, gives the local children coins for ice-cream, leaves tips wherever he can, and never has a harsh word for anyone—even gently encouraging the people around us to be less pushy to sell their wares to tone it down.
It’s a side of him I realize I like. It’s not dominating or demanding. But rather, kind, helpful, a side where he listens.
And it’s terrifying how much I like it.
Because I know I shouldn’t. I’m here because of a deal. Because my family owes him. I’m here so he can make sure he collects.
So why can’t I stop remembering the little things? How he checked in on me by bringing me tea the night before weleft for Cancun. How apologetic he had been, without saying so in words, when I was angry about this unexpected trip. How considerate he’s being tonight by showing me the town instead of locking me away.
Italmostmakes me forget that he’s my kidnapper. My forced husband.
And that’s what makes it so hard when I catch myself admiring the crinkles around his eyes when he laughs adorably, or feel the distracting brush of his hand against mine.
And suddenly, I’m afraid to meet his eye like I’m scared I’ll see the humanity there.
We continue our stroll, and though I had been relaxed, I find myself on edge again. Ilary makes for pleasant company, and that’s a damning realization.
“You have to try one of these,” he insists when he pulls me up to a taco stand and orders a birria fish taco.
I eye him warily, but take a bite. The sauces are so smoky, so rich that they send an instant dopamine hit.
“Mmm,” I murmur. “This is …so good.”
He leans over, and his fingers brush against the corner of my lips. “You’ve got some sauce,” he says, his thumb grazing my lip.
I freeze.
So does he.
He quickly pulls back, like he just realized what he did. I meet his eyes—those gorgeous brown eyes—and feel time stand still.
Right now, under the moonlight with those fairy lights twinkling above, he looks devastatingly human. Caring. Kind.
And that’s what it does.
That’s what cracks me.
Scares me. Terrifies me.
I look away fast and pretend to study the menu.
“Should we get another?” he asks, turning to look at the menu too.
