Page 16 of Ruthless Silence
Ana freezes completely, every muscle locked. Her hand twitches toward her thigh, toward the blade, an automatic response to being grabbed. The movement makes her body press back against mine, her ass brushing my cock through the layers of fabric. I go steel-hard instantly, and I know she feels it because her breath catches.
I place my hand on Ana's back, steadying and claiming in equal measure. She's trembling now, overwhelmed by Maria's unexpected warmth and the evidence of what she does to mepressed against her. My touch seems to ground her, even as my cock threatens to tear through my zipper.
I cut the introductions short with a sharp gesture. The staff scatter immediately, trained to recognize my moods without words. Ana sways on her feet, and I fight the urge to throw her over my shoulder, carry her upstairs like the prize she is.
"She's perfect for him," Maria whispers as they retreat. "Look how he watches her."
If only she knew how I'm really watching. Cataloging every place I want to bite, every sound I'll pull from her throat, every way I'll make her body betray her hatred.
I guide Ana toward the stairs with a light touch on her elbow. She precedes me, careful, knowing I'm behind her watching every step. Her dress trails on the marble, torn fabric catching. The damage from our first dance of violence marks her as mine better than any wedding band.
Her hand finds the banister, wedding ring catching the chandelier light. She pauses at the landing, uncertain which direction leads to her new prison. I touch her elbow again, guiding left toward the master wing. She flinches but doesn't pull away, learning the vocabulary of my touch. Soon she'll learn the whole language. What my hands mean on her throat, her hips, between her thighs.
The hallway is lined with family photos. Ana stops at one. Our parents and all six of us children. Sofia just a baby in our mother's arms, me a teenager, still beautiful before the world carved its marks on my throat. Before the night that made me silent and made her an orphan.
I move her along before she can study it too closely. She hasn't earned my history yet. Hasn't earned the truth of that boy who could still speak, still smile without darkness behind it.
Nico emerges from his room as we pass, ever the guardian. "Perimeter secure," he reports with military efficiency. "Her things are in your suite."
Ana looks between us, parsing the meaning. Her belongings have already been moved, claimed, integrated into my space. The reality of it makes her shoulders tighten. Good. Let her feel the cage closing.
Alsandro's door opens and he leans out, somehow in designer pajamas at five in the evening. "Sister! Welcome! Try not to kill him the first night. The paperwork would be awful."
For a moment, Ana's mouth twitches like she might actually smile. Alex has that effect on people, charm coating everything like expensive cologne. But she catches herself, locks it down.
From somewhere above, piano music drifts down. Something dark and violent that could only be Luca. Ana looks up toward the sound, curious, but I firmly guide her forward. She doesn't need to meet that particular demon yet. Maybe never, if I can manage it. Marco is sending him away tomorrow before I have to introduce him to my bride, and perhaps he'll never return.
The master suite doors wait at the end of the hall, carved dark wood heavy enough to keep out armies. Or keep in secrets. Ana stops beside me, suddenly smaller in my domain, realizing how isolated she's become. No allies here, no escape routes she knows, just my family's walls around her. The reality of it makes my cock pulse. She's trapped with the monster she came to slay.
I pull out the key. Old-fashioned, brass, heavy with generations of weight. My father used this same key. Now it's mine, about to lock in my would-be assassin bride.
Before turning it, I face Ana directly. Her exhaustion makes her eyes look huge, but the fight hasn't left them. Good. I'd be disappointed if it had. I want her fighting when I finally takeher, want her cursing my name in Italian while her body begs for more.
My hands move through signs, slow and deliberate so she can't misunderstand: "Behind these doors, we are alone. You are my wife. I am your husband. Everything changes now."
Her hands shake slightly as she signs back, but her message is clear: "Nothing changes. I still want you dead."
The confession shoots straight to my cock. She's promising to keep trying to kill me, and fuck if that isn't better than wedding night platitudes. Most brides promise to love and obey. Mine promises murder. Perfect.
"I'm counting on it," I sign back.
The brass tumblers fall into place with a sound like fate clicking. Twenty years since my father signed that contract, binding his silent son to a Moretti daughter who'd grow up hating us. Now she's here, trembling with exhaustion and rage, about to enter my lair.
The smile pulls at my lips. That same dangerous curve from the church when she tried to open my throat. Ana sees it and something flickers in her eyes. Fear? Arousal? In our world, they're often the same.
I push the carved door open, revealing darkness beyond. Our suite waits in shadow, afternoon light filtered through heavy curtains I haven't opened in years. The space beyond is mine, has always been mine, but now it will be ours. The thought makes my cock throb with dark promise.
I gesture for Ana to enter first. Traditional, perhaps, but also tactical. I want to watch her walk into my domain, see her silhouette disappear into the darkness that I call home. Want to follow that white dress into shadow and show her exactly what happens to brides who try to kill their husbands.
She hesitates at the threshold, one hand braced against the doorframe. This is the moment of no return. Once she stepsacross, she's truly mine. Not just by law or signature, but by the simple fact of entering my private space. The place where I plot, where I bleed, where I'll make her scream my name in sign language while she comes.
My hand ghosts over her back, not quite touching but close enough that she can feel the heat of my palm through the thin fabric. I'm not pushing, not forcing. This choice, at least, I'll let her make. Even if there's really no choice at all.
Ana takes a deep breath that makes the knife pendant rise and fall against her throat. Then she steps forward into the darkness of our shared space, white dress disappearing into shadow like a ghost returning home.
I follow my bride into the darkness, pulling the door shut behind us with a solid click that echoes like a promise.
The lock engages automatically, sealing us in together. My wife. My would-be assassin. My perfect, dangerous prize.
