Page 17 of Of Murder and Matrimony

Unacceptable.

My face heated with rage at her blatant misbehavior. I stalked after her, flinging the door hard enough to crack against the drywall as I followed my wayward fiancée. She glanced over her shoulder, eyes wide as she took in my face. She picked up her pace, but I caught her down the hall, wrapping my hand around her neck and spinning her, slamming her hard against the wall.

I pinned her there, even as she struggled to breathe. Why was I plagued with this woman?

“Stop!” I roared, squeezing until Olesya’s eyes became unfocused. Only then did I give her enough room to breathe. “You will respect me in my own home. Do you understand me?”

Her whole body trembled, but it would have been too easy if she just gave in. Instead, fire burned in her eyes, and she pursed her lips. I felt my jaw drop when she had the fucking nerve to spit on me.

Before I could form a coherent thought, my primal mind acted for me. My lips crashed into hers, teeth biting into flesh. I tasted my blood and shoved my tongue into Olesya’s mouth, punishing her with the pleasure I knew she wanted to resist. Triumph filled my chest when she melted against me and returned my kiss, gasping into my mouth and grinding her hips against mine.

I tore myself away from her, lurching back and staring at the cursed woman before me. She looked disheveled and beautifully used. My cock throbbed, and I was so fucking tempted to lift her leg and fuck her where she stood.

But I didn’t.

“You’re resisting for nothing,” I sneered, my voice rough. I needed to regain the high ground. I pulled her roughly down the hall to her room and shoved her inside. She stumbled, falling to her knees. She raked her hair away from her face as she turned to face me from the floor. “This union is inevitable. It always has been. No matter what either of us wants.”

Her tear-filled eyes were the last thing I saw before slamming the door and engaging the lock. I shoved down the dangerously soft emotion that felt like sympathy and reinforced the steel wall around my heart. I would not let this woman weaken my resolve.

“Think about your actions. We’ll try again tomorrow.” I rapped my knuckles against the door once and walked away without a backward glance.

Chapter Six

In other circumstances, waking up in the guest room at the Neretti mansion might seem like a luxury. For me, it was a stark reminder that my life was no longer my own and perhaps had never been.

Last night I had plenty of time to think, with only my empty, rumbling stomach breaking through the oppressive silence in my room. Others may have fought against their destiny and tried to escape, but I knew better. My best shot at survival was to be compliant enough to satisfy Dante while acting for myself when possible. So I didn’t try to pick the lock on the door or force the window open. It would have been useless, anyway. The drop was over ten feet to the ground, and my ankles would shatter on impact.

The house was cool in the morning hours since the air conditioning ran all day and night to keep the building temperate. I tossed the covers off and looked down at the white dress shirt I still wore. When I pressed the soft fabric to my nose, it smelled like Dante.

He hadn’t smelled like lemon and sage when we were younger. Back then, he’d worn whatever expensive cologne his father bought for him. I remembered how it had lingered thick in the air even after he’d left the room. Now, it was subtle, but damn it if it didn’t feel homier and more inviting. My traitorous mind flashed images of Dante’s body covering mine, pressing my face into the crook of his neck to inhale the scent, where it mingled with his skin.

I snapped out of the visual—part memory and part fantasy—and trudged toward the bathroom, taking care of necessities and discarding the shirt on the floor while the shower water warmed up. Why did I stand there staring at that fabric, longing to wrap it around my body again? I kicked it across the floor for good measure before stepping into the shower.

My days of juvenile dreams had passed long ago. I was nearly thirty, and there was no great romance in my future. Soon enough, I would be married to the only man who had broken my heart. Even when my father announced my arranged marriage, it hadn’t hurt the core of my being.

I’d spent years ensuring nobody got close enough to have that power over me, and I’d succeeded. Jason was a kind man, but my feelings for him hadn’t been strong enough to give him an opportunity to break my heart. That privilege belonged to Dante alone.

No amount of soap could wash the feeling of inadequacy from my body when I recalled the moment he told me I would never be enough for him. I tried, rubbing the soapy cloth across my skin over and over, until I felt raw and my body was bright pink. Throwing the washcloth to the white tile shower floor, I grabbed the expensive shampoo that smelled like flowers and scrubbed my scalp, even though I’d just washed my hair the day before. I conditioned and turned the shower cold, standing under the stream until I shivered.

Shutting off the water, I reached for a plush white towel and dried my body before stepping onto the fluffy floor rug, leaning over to wrap my hair in the towel. I froze when I stood, seeing the set of clothes neatly folded on the counter. Somebody had come into the bathroom while I showered, and I hadn’t noticed.

I shivered at the thought, feeling violated, even if they hadn’t looked at me. Because I didn’t know whether they’d seen me. That would be something to negotiate with Dante. I needed an area where I could feel safe because everything outside my room was unknown. I’d been away from the life of the family for so long that remembering how to navigate things would take time.

The outfit was simple, jeans that fit me like a glove and a white, short-sleeved silk blouse with a high neckline. Wary of having a repeat performance with Dante, I buttoned every damn button. I stared slack-jawed at my reflection after drying my hair. I looked the part of a casual mafia wife—understated but elegant, my honey-blonde hair shiny and eyes lackluster from the dangerous knowledge I possessed.

I ran my fingers through my hair, smoothing it down, satisfied for now. My makeup sat on the counter, but I didn’t bother with it. Dante could suck his own dick if he thought I would make myself pretty for him. We weren’t married yet.

My bed had been made, complete with a mint on the pillow. I’d bet money Martina was behind that—no Neretti man would be so thoughtful. A pair of white leather flats sat by the side I’d slept on, and I unwrapped the mint and popped it into my mouth while I pushed my feet into them—perfect fit, of course.

A thought crossed my mind, and I strode across the room, reaching for the doorknob and finding it turned easily in my hand. Dante was giving me a reprieve from my cell. Kind of. When I opened the door, one of his men stood on the opposite wall, hands clasped before him.

“Ms. Zolotov,” he greeted me with a nod. “Follow me, please. Mr. Neretti would like you to take breakfast in the kitchen.”

I fell into step behind the hulking man. I realized he hadn't said much the other times we’d interacted. “What is your name?”

“Stefano.”

“How long have you worked for the Nerettis?” He practically rushed down the stairs with a disconcerting stealth for such a large man, and I had to hurry to keep up. At least I wasn’t wearing heels.

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