Page 308 of Rosetti Family New York
The consultation area looks like a luxury apartment, complete with champagne chilling in crystal buckets and delicate hors d'oeuvres. But it's the specific selection that makes my pulse race. French pastries I mentioned loving once, champagne from a vineyard I dreamed of visiting.
He's been listening. Not just watching me, but remembering casual preferences, comments about beauty, comfort, or small luxuries that make life worthwhile.
"You have extraordinary bone structure," Marcus says, looking at my face with open admiration, causing Emilio to shift beside me. "Perfect for both classic elegance and contemporary edge pieces."
Emilio's tension increases as Marcus's gaze moves from my jawline down my throat with a look that feels almost personal. Emilio senses competition, even when it's part of a fashion consultation.
The pieces Marcus shows are stunning. A tailored midnight blue blazer that makes me look like I belong in boardrooms where empires are built, an emerald silk evening gown that turns elegance into a weapon. Each garment speaks of quality beyond mere expense, craftsmanship that turns clothing into armor.
"The fabric is exquisite," Marcus says, handing me a cocktail dress, his fingers lightly touching mine as I take the hanger. "Italian silk, hand-woven. Feel the weight of it."
The brief contact, just a brush of skin, makes Emilio go completely still beside me. I can practically sense the tensionbuilding within him, instincts sharpened by our growing closeness.
"Thoughtful," I say, examining the dress's construction, acutely aware of the tension from the man next to me. The memory of his focused attention sends a rush of heat through me, even in public.
"Try the cocktail dress," Marcus suggests, heading to the fitting room with assumed familiarity. "I'll help you with the closure; it's quite intricate."
"No."
The word comes out ice-cold, full of enough threat to make smart people rethink their choices. Both Marcus and I freeze as Emilio's facade drops, revealing the predator that our growing bond has brought closer to the surface.
"Mr. Rosetti, I assure you, it's perfectly standard for me to assist—"
"I said no."
Emilio stands up slowly, making sure Marcus understands the kind of man he is—one who handles problems. The kind whose woman just pleased him and is now being touched by someone else.
"Emilio," I warn, though part of me is thrilled by his display. The growing closeness between us makes his protective instincts seem like a natural progression rather than unwanted control.
"Of course," Marcus says quickly, regaining his calm despite the sweat on his forehead. "The fitting room is fully equipped. Please, take your time."
I slip behind the heavy curtains, very aware that this isn't just about clothes anymore. Yesterday I'd shown him the difference between being watched and being given a choice. Now he's showing me what it means to belong to someone who sees my pleasure as his main concern.
The black dress slides over my skin like liquid shadow, turning me from a woman with complex feelings into something beautiful and dangerous. When I come out, Emilio's sharp breath tells me all I need to know about the effect.
But it's Marcus's clear admiration, the way his lips part slightly, his pupils widen, that sets off the reaction I've been dreading.
Emilio moves quickly, closing the gap between them with a smooth, predatory grace. His hand wraps around Marcus's throat.
"Did you think," he says in a calm voice that turns into a deadly whisper, "that I brought her here for you to undress with your eyes? That I arranged this private consultation so you could imagine what she looks like beneath that silk?"
"Please—" Marcus gasps, clawing at Emilio's wrist as his face starts to turn purple. "I didn't mean—"
"You didn't mean to disrespect what's mine?" Emilio's grip tightens a bit. "Because that's exactly what you did."
The casual violence is alarming. Even so, arousal floods my system like fire. Seeing him unleash his fury feels like witnessing the real him, dangerous and thrilling.
"Emilio." I step closer, using the authority I claimed yesterday. "Let him go."
For a moment, I think he might ignore me. He's like a predator with his prey in sight, and I'm a threat to his territory. But then he looks at me, sees something in my expression, and releases Marcus.
"Get out," he tells the stylist, still looking at me. "Send someone else. A woman. Now."
Marcus rushes to the exit, holding his throat, and his suit flutters around him like peacock feathers. The door closes softly, leaving us alone with scattered silk and crystal.
"Well," I say, looking at my reflection in the mirrors that caught the whole scene, "that was dramatic."
"He was looking at you like—"
