Page 28 of Rosetti Family New York
A single word, and I'm already turning, grabbing my coat, heading for the door.
"Should we be worried?" he asks.
I pause in the doorway. "She should be."
I shove my hands through my hair, grab my keys and slam the door behind me. Wind bites my face as I hit the outdoors. If she thinks she can make a fool out of me like this, she's got another thing coming. I know exactly where she's gone. Right back to Daddy. Right back to the diamond-encrusted cage I took her from. She's testing me, waiting to see how far she can push. I have a thing or two to show her about pushing.
It's the worst kind of joke. We've been married less than a month, and Eleanor's already made a habit of poking at my temper, wearing her fucking defiance like a weapon. I know it's all for show. Her heat in bed gives her away, nuzzling into my neck and chest while I lie with a cock made of steel with no chance of release.
I throw myself into the car, and the engine roars to life, filling my blood with adrenaline and rage. Traffic crawls. Gray clouds hang low, threatening rain. Eleanor's father lives uptown, an easy enough trip under normal conditions, but with her running through my mind, the distance stretches for miles. She's probably already got the champagne uncorked. Telling her sister how she'll have her life back before the day is through. But Eleanor's my wife. My fucking possession, bought and paid for. The sooner she learns it, the better.
I turn the last corner. The family mansion stands like a jewel, bright against the grim city. I'm out of the car before it comes to a stop, charging through the front gates. The inside is all glass and gloss, rooms full of priceless junk. The opulence of it all would be enough to make me sick if I weren't so angry.
A maid starts to ask who I am, but I’m already at the stairs, taking them two at a time. She'll be upstairs in one of the bedrooms. The door is cracked open, and I see her before she sees me.
Eleanor stands by the window, looking out at the rain that’s finally started to fall. Her hair is dark, almost black in this light. Her back is straight, every inch of her as elegant and precise as the cut of a diamond. I feel that familiar rush of frustration, anger, and desire.
"Nice place you have here," I say. My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to. She turns slowly, the perfect image of composure.
"Leonardo," she says, apparently not surprised to see me.
I want to shake that calm right out of her. "You didn't ask permission to leave."
Her eyes narrow just slightly. "I don't ask permission to come and go from my own house."
We're two yards apart, but the distance is razor-thin. I move closer, her scent filling my lungs with every step. Something expensive and floral. Her mouth is a firm line, but I know she's feeling more than she lets on.
"You're my wife, Eleanor," I say. "And you agreed to the rules. No running."
She twists the ring on her finger. She's wearing a soft blue sweater, a perfectly tailored charcoal pencil skirt. Even now, she looks like she stepped out of a fashion magazine. But there's something else too. Her skin is flushed. She's breathless as if she ran here.
"You're acting like I disappeared," she says. "I only came to check on Juliet. My sister, remember? Or did you already forget about her?"
The only thing Eleanor has asked for since she married me is that I check in on her sister, and I did.
"I told you I'd take care of that," I say.
"And I told you I can handle it myself. Lucky for you she’s ok."
The words are strong, but her voice wavers. Just a little. I take another step, and her eyes flash like she's about to tell me to fuck off. Instead, she just holds her ground. The defiance is a thrill, but I'm not about to let her see it.
"You haven't apologized for running. Is this how you want it?" I ask. "Because we can do it the hard way if you want. I love the hard way."
She's close now, close enough to touch. Her breath hitches. Her cheeks are pink. I wonder if she even knows how much she wants this. How much she wants me.
"Fine," she says. One word, but it cuts like glass.
I almost smile. "Let's go."
I don’t give her a chance to answer. I grab her hand, pull her towards the door. She's silent as I drag her down the stairs, across the echoing hall, out into the cold rain, making sure I go slowly enough that she won't stumble. She shivers, but when I look at her, she holds her chin high, staring straight ahead like she's already planning her next escape. I open the car door for her, take off my jacket to drape over her, then slam the door.
We don’t speak on the way back. New York glistens wet around us. I grip the steering wheel like it's the only thing keeping me from tearing the clothes right off her body. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her sitting straight-backed and distant. I push the pedal harder. The car hugs the slick curves, pulling us forward.
We reach the mansion, and I sense the tension in her grow. It's there in the stiff set of her shoulders, the stubbornness of her walk. It's there in the heat of her body as she brushes past me in the doorway, trying to pretend she's not affected. I say nothing, and neither does she. We climb the stairs, her footsteps as quick and angry as mine. I open the door to our bedroom, let her walk in first. She stops in the center of the room, turns to face me. Her eyes are cold fire.
"Are you going to keep me locked up now?" she says.
"Not yet," I answer, closing the door behind us.
