Page 12 of Till Death Do Us Part

Goosebumps spread across my skin as he swipes my long hair over one shoulder, his fingers grazing my neck before moving to release the top button. He takes his time, his hands moving at little more than a snail’s pace as he makes his way down my spine. His breath tickles my back as the dress loosens around me.

“Should I?”

I wait for his answer, but it never comes. Instead, he trails his fingers down my spine, and my breath shudders as sparks of electricity race through me. He leans in, his full lips pressed against my earlobe. My body tenses as he speaks, though not in fear as it probably should. “Good night, Princess.”

I sleep poorly, though thankfully, alone. Antonio never comes to the bedroom, and when sunlight filters through the blinds, a grateful smile passes my lips. I shower quickly, pulling my hair back in a claw clip so it can air dry while I dress in leggings and a plain black sweater before moving into the main area of the suite.

“Good morning,” Antonio says, calling out to me from where he sits at the island. He is dressed in another black suit, without a tie today, and his hair is slicked back. He wears a smile on his face while he pours over the newspaper in front of him. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you,” I answer, moving to the kettle warily. This is the most he’s spoken to me, and I’m not sure what to expect from him. “Did you?”

He must sense the apprehension in me, as he chuckles darkly. “Yes. I did. Thank you.”

Nodding awkwardly, I make a cup of tea, avoiding his steely gaze. “Did you want a drink?”

“No, thanks.” He waves a mug of coffee in front of me with an amused look on his face. My face flushes in embarrassment, my eyes settling on the cup in my hand. “We should probably have a chat.”

“Surrre,” I say slowly, grabbing a stool from under the island and hopping up on it before facing him.

He straightens, dropping his paper to the counter before lifting his gaze to mine. His expression is blank—unreadable as he watches me for a beat. “I am sure you have questions, many of them.”

“I do,” I agree with a small nod.

“I doubt I can answer any of them for you,” he tells me, tilting his head to eye me curiously when I lift the mug to my mouth and blow on the scalding tea. Steam curls from the mug, the warmth hitting my face. “Though I will try.”

“Why am I here?”

“That one I cannot answer unfortunately,” he retorts with a dark chuckle. “This union is something that was planned many years ago, long before either you or I learnt of it.”

My brow furrows, his words running through my mind. I was only made aware of the contract three years ago, the day I turned eighteen. Papá had told me that day he had received the offer maybe a few weeks before. “But my father said—”

“Your father lied, Pippa. The union between our families was planned over sixteen years ago,” he says with a crooked smile perched on his face.

That makes no sense. We relocated to England fifteen years ago. Why would my father move us away from our home, from his life, if a marriage between our two families was imminent? Why bother?

I tell Antonio as much, but he just shrugs casually, the smile remaining on his face. My blood chills as I watch him, the hair on the nape of my neck tingling with anxious energy.

“Who are the men from last night, and why do they want me?”

“The Bratva. They’re the Russian Mafia. And as for why they want you, that is another thing I can’t answer.”

“Can’t or won’t?” I ask him, reading between the lines. When he laughs again, his eyes turn cold. My stomach falls, and I bite my tongue to stop anything more from flying out of my mouth. While Antonio might be acting nice this morning, I don’t doubt that’s all it is—an act.

There is nothing warm, welcoming, or nice about the man I now get to call husband.

“Your father warned me you were free with your speech,” he comments, his brow raising. “Though I’m not sure you are what any of us were expecting.”

“So I keep on hearing,” I mumble.

“Any more questions?”

“Our marriage—” I pause, unsure how to ask the question burning in my brain. “What is expected of me?”

“I won’t offer you love, Pippa,” he tells me, his mouth turning down a little over the thought. “It is expected that we’ll have children one day. I’m willing to give you a little time to get used to me before I take you to bed but know that I will take you to bed. I need an heir, and you’re the woman who gets the pleasure of giving one to me.”

My blood chills, my hands clenching so tightly around the mug my knuckles turn white.

“Okay,” I agree softly, knowing I can’t argue with him on that point—no matter how much I want to. “Will you take others?”

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