Page 17 of Stolen Vows
His presence is overwhelming and cold, and I shiver under the plush throw draped over me, closing my eyes.
“I see Anna didn’t bother dissuading you from raiding my liquor cabinet.”
Cheeks burning, I squint against the harsh bravado of his voice. “I picked the lock,” I mutter, trying not to laugh at how slow my words sound. This molasses isthick.
Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to steal his alcohol, but the girls left an hour or two ago, and I couldn’t find anything better to do. At least some liquid courage would help me get through tonight.
“You’re going to be a problem for me, aren’t you?”
“Hope so.” I turn my face into the mattress. It’s so soft. “Where have you been all night?”
“Had a few fires to attend to. Believe it or not, some family members don’t appreciate my getting married without their knowledge.”
“Especially to a Ricci. Right? They all probably think I’m some traitor waiting for the right moment to turn you over to the Feds. Just like my sister did with Papà’s assets.”
“Your lineage might have come up, yes.”
“So, are you going to send me back? Demand my father pay you some other way?”
Leo hums, and a second later, I feel him sliding the blanket off, baring my calves. Startled, I jackknife into a sitting position, pain shooting through my temples with the sudden motion.
He pushes my shoulders down gently, the way you might restrain a wild animal. My heart hammers inside my chest, so loud that I’m certain he can hear it in the quiet bedroom, though neither of us acknowledges it.
“Relax,” he says, and my eyes close again on instinct. A second later, his fingers are on my ankle, lifting my foot off the bed. “I’m merely removing your shoes so your feet don’t ache in the morning.”
“And here I thought you were the evil sorcerer, locking me away in a tower for your own sick enjoyment.”
“If you’re already injured, torturing you is less fun.” A soft thud echoes through the silence, followed by a second one.
I tense, although I’m pretty sure if he wanted to hurt me, he’d have done it by now.
“Don’t worry.” When his hands leave my body, an empty coldness is left behind. “I have no interest in drunken pussy. You’re safe.”
Safe. In my murderous, criminal husband’s home.It’s almost laughable.
“Even though it’s our wedding night?”
He comes to my side and the corner of the mattress dips with his weight. I peel an eye open, watching as he leans toward the nightstand, inspecting the bottle of scotch I smuggled out of his kitchen. Barely anything is gone, yet I can hardly see straight.
“Is that why you got drunk?” Leo asks. “Because you thought it would make tonight easier?”
Mamma’s warnings from before she went MIA flash in my mind—how men only want one thing, and when you’ve given it up, your freedom is gone. Forever. There’s no getting it back, no way to debase yourself lower than allowing someone like Leo—like Papà, I always assumed she really meant—to defile you.
But this is all my sisters and I were told we were good for. No number of trophies won at academic decathlons in school, or tests aced, or college interest would ever be enough to erase the fact that the Ricci sisters were brought into this world to serve our father’s purpose.
Now I’m supposed to fulfill Leo’s desires. My purpose is to be a wife and nothing else.
A wave of nausea washes over me with that thought. It bucks up out of nowhere, and I slap my palm over my mouth, heaving before I get my head over the bed.
Leo snatches a small metal trash can from the floor and holds it up just in time for me to retch directly into it. Dull brown acidic fluid spews from my mouth and nose, burning my throat on its expulsion. My fingers dig into the bed, clawing at the sheets as more vomit exits my body, and dizziness washes over me with it.
His gloved hand smooths over my hair, gathering its length at the base of my neck. It takes me several seconds of staring into the soiled trash can to realize he’s holding the strands back so they don’t get messy.
I can count on two fingers the number of times anyone’s ever bothered to assist me when I was sick, and both instances were my sisters. Never a parent, and definitely never a man. No one like Leo.
My eyelashes tickle as I stare up at him. Sweat beads trail along my temples, tracking down the sides of my face, and I don’t want to think about how unattractive I probably look to him right now.
“You have beautiful hair,” he says after a moment, pushing some back behind my ear. “It’s so long and soft.”
