Page 5 of Bloody Vows
But Tristan is different.
I can’t help glancing at him in my periphery as the conversations continue on with all the excitement of lords holding court in Parliament. He stands silently just behind hisfather’s chair, arms crossed over his broad chest, suit tugging at his arms as the muscle there strains against the perfect tailoring. He doesn't join in the discussion, doesn't make his own case for why he should be the one to claim me and my father's empire. Instead, he waits with the lazy confidence of a man who knows he’s already won a game that everyone else is still playing. There's something in his posture, in the way he watches me, that suggests he knows something the others don't.
My heart trips in my chest, anxiety chilling my veins. Every time one of the other men mentions my "future" or my "situation," Tristan's lips curve into a slight smile. Not cruel, exactly, but knowing. Possessive. As if he's already aware of how this is going to end, and he's simply waiting for everyone else to catch up.
It makes me hate him, in particular. The other men are dogs fighting over a feast, but Tristan is behaving as if the feast is beneath him. Or as if, perhaps, there’s a different feast waiting for him that no one else will get to partake in.
My blood boils every time I look at him.
When Tony speaks up, suggesting to Konstantin that I would benefit from “strong masculine guidance in these difficult times,” I want to punch him in the face. When Marco calls me “delicate,” I want to claw his eyes out and see howdelicatehe thinks that is. It’s laughable that these men think I’ve been raised around violence and somehow remained as pure and fragile as a newly opened flowerbud, that I’m incapable of any of the rage or fury or bloodlust that they all have in spades.
When Riko says that he’s sure I’m “grateful” for so many strong men in the room to lead me through this delicate stage in my life, something snaps in my brain.
"Excuse me." My voice cuts through the conversation like a blade.
The room falls silent. Seven pairs of eyes turn to me—Tristan has never stopped looking at me—and I see surprise on the faces of the five lesser men who came here to see if they could elevate themselves through marrying me or arranging my marriage. Finnegan looks amused. Konstantin looks irritated that I’ve interrupted, which is perhaps the most dangerous of the expressions, but I’m beginning to care less. I’m tired of being talked about like an exhibit.
"I'm sitting right here," I continue, my tone carefully controlled despite the fury burning in my chest. "If you're going to discuss my future, perhaps you could do me the courtesy of including me in the conversation."
Tony has the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "I’m sorry, Miss Russo?—”
"No, you’re not," I interrupt. "You meant to talk about me as if I'm not here, as if I'm a piece of property to be divided up among you. But I am here, and I am not property."
Marco shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "Simone, you have to understand, this is how these things are done. Your father would have?—"
"My father is dead," I snap. "And regardless of how he would have handled this,Iam the one sitting here now.Iam the one who inherited his empire. AndIam the one you're all so eager to marry off to the highest bidder."
The silence that follows is deafening. I can practically hear the wheels turning in their heads as they try to figure out how to respond to this unexpected show of defiance. In this world, women are supposed to be seen and not heard, especially in matters of business. The fact that I'm pushing back against their assumptions is clearly throwing them off balance. Konstantin’s irritation is visibly growing, though I happen to know for a fact that it’s not because I’m a woman and speaking out of turn. The womanhechose to marry is proof enough of that.
It’s because my outburst is keeping him here, and I’m sure he already wants to be gone.
Tristan chuckles from where he stands behind his father’s chair, a deep, rich sound coming from the depths of his throat, and when I whip my head around to look at him, I see him watching me with obvious amusement. His green eyes glint with pleasure, and there’s a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Am I entertaining you?” I snap, and he smirks.
"Fiery," he murmurs, his voice low and appreciative. "I like that."
The casual way he says it, as if he's commenting on a horse he's considering purchasing, makes my temper flare even hotter.
"I wasn't performing for your benefit, Mr. O'Malley," I snap coldly.
"No?" He raises an eyebrow, his gaze intensifying. "Pity. I was enjoying the show."
There’s unadulterated desire in his eyes. Even I, sheltered as I am, can see it. He’s looking at me as if he’s imagining how I taste, as if he can’t wait to find out, as if he knows that hewillfind out, and it only stokes the flame of my anger higher.
"This isn't a show," I hiss. "This is my life."
“Indeed.” He smiles without warmth. “I’m sure it will be an exciting life, going forward. Full of twists you can’t begin to expect.”
The implication in his words is clear, and it sends a chill down my spine. He's not just talking about my future in general terms. He's talking about my future with him, as if it's already been decided. I’m not stupid; I know how to read between the lines. And I can guess why he’s here; I’m fairly sure that I already have.
"I think you're getting ahead of yourself, Mr. O'Malley," I’m proud that my voice doesn't shake despite the emotion burning in my chest. "No one has asked for your opinion on my life."
"Haven't they?" He glances at Konstantin, then back at me. "I think you'll find that my opinion carries more weight than you might expect."
Before I can respond to that cryptic comment, Konstantin finally speaks.
"Gentlemen," he says authoritatively, glancing around the room. "I think we've covered enough ground for today. I’ll consider your suggestions for further business dealings and contracts. I will, of course, need to look into how deeply any of you might have assisted Giovanni Russo in his… unfortunate business choices. Miss Russo, perhaps you and I could speak privately?" He looks at me, his bearing stiff and formal, and a chill runs down my spine.
