Page 19 of Charming Villain
For a moment, I think he might turn and leave. My shoulders start to relax, tension draining from my neck and upper back like water trickling away. But then I see a flicker of something dark pass across his face—something that looks like irritation and displeasure. He must sense my relief, and it grates on him like sandpaper against his carefully maintained control.
“Actually,” Luciano changes his mind, “bring your things to the master bedroom.”
It’s like the temperature in the room drops several degrees. My stomach sinks, a heavy weight settling in my core. Of course I don’t get my own bedroom—how naive to think otherwise. I’m to be his wife, which means sharing a bed, and space, and everything else. And from the anger now tightening his jaw, the muscle there twitching beneath his skin, the last thing he wants is me enjoying freedom away from him. He makes it clear in a single sentence—I’m not here as a guest, but as a possession to be kept close.
I nod, swallowing back my frustration, and brush past Luciano. He doesn’t offer to help me with the bags piled near the door; he just folds his arms and watches from a distance as I lug them to the master bedroom. I’m painfully aware of the ache in my arms, but I don’t complain.
I can’t believe I thought he was softening, that I thought he’d let me stay in the guest room and preserve some distance between us while we learned about one another. My hope was short-lived, snatched away the moment he noticed the small slump in my shoulders and the quiet exhalation of relief I couldn’t fully hide. My father used to do the same. He fed off every flicker of emotion. I guess he and Luciano have that in common.
I drag my suitcases into the master bedroom at the end of the hallway. The overhead light is on, revealing a space that’s both more lived-in and more impersonal than I expect. A large king-sized bed with dark sheets sits unmade, pillows piled up near the head. A tall dresser stands against one wall, and a half-open closet door reveals rows of neatly hung suits. And the faint smell of Luciano lingers in the air. It’s not exactly cologne, but something warm and masculine that I can’t place.
As I begin to set my things down near the foot of the bed, I press a hand to my lower back in relief. My muscles hurt from hauling the heavy suitcases around the house. When I straighten, my gaze falls on the rumpled sheets on the bed. They look inviting, dark and silky against the mattress, promising comfort after a long day. Before I can say anything, I sense him behind me.
Luciano’s presence so close to mine causes the fine hairs on the back of my neck to stand up. I don’t turn around, but I can feel the heat of his body on my back, and sense the swirl of conflicting emotions seething just beneath his rigid exterior.
“It looks cozy, doesn’t it?” His voice is a whisper, far too close to my ear.
My eyes close briefly, and a shiver rolls down my spine. I have to fight the urge to lean into him and take respite in his embrace. “Yes,” I manage, my voice subdued.
“It’s a shame you won’t be sleeping there.”
The words crash over me like a bucket of ice water, shocking my system and draining what little warmth remained. I bite my lip hard enough to taste copper, refusing to let out even the smallest sound of disappointment or protest. My father always reveled in my reactions—fear, anger, tears—treating each display of emotion like a victory to savor. Over the years, I learned to bury them deep and lock them away where no one could use them against me. Luciano deserves nothing different.
He steps back, leaving the air between us too thick to breathe. A second later, I hear his footsteps heading out the door, leaving me alone with the bed I can’t use.
For a moment, I just stand there, glaring at the bed as if it personally wronged me. It’s big enough for two or three people. The dark sheets are soft-looking, wrinkled where he must have slept the night before. My eyes drift over the scattered pillows, the leftover imprint from his body. I hate that a tiny part of me longs to crawl under the covers, forget this nightmare, and actually rest.
But I know better.
Footsteps return a couple of minutes later—he reenters, carrying a thin mattress rolled up under one arm, blankets draped over the other. He drops them on the floor in the corner of the room with a thud that makes me jump.
“There,” he says, voice cool and detached. “That’ll be your bed.”
I stiffen, glancing at the mattress and noting how thin and uncomfortable it looks. A small, rebellious part of me wants to argue, to demand better, but I clamp my mouth shut. It won’t do me any good.
He nods at the makeshift bed. “That’ll be enough for you for now. I’d invite you to share my space, but I can’t sleep beside someone I don’t trust.” His tone is dismissive, but there’s anger beneath the surface—like he’s reminding himself that keeping me at a distance is necessary.
I stare at the thin mattress once more. The worn fabric is pilled and faded, with a few suspicious stains dotting its surface. Exhaustion tugs at my limbs, making my shoulders sag and my eyes feel heavy. “Thank you,” I say quietly.
Luciano narrows his eyes at me and then leaves the room. I listen as his footsteps retreat, waiting for him to return with another blow to my pride, but it never comes. After several minutes, I realize that he’s giving me space. I exhale, and stress leaves my body in the form of muscles unclenching and my shoulders untightening.
“This is temporary,” I mumble as I move my suitcases next to my mattress. “I will figure out what he wants from me, and then I’ll become it.” I did it with my father. I knew he wanted the perfect, silent, dutiful daughter. I knew every word he’d say to me before he said it. I knew every punishment I’d incur if I so much as breathed wrong. I knew every code of conduct he expected from me. I could be that woman in my sleep; she is who I am when I’m on autopilot.
But the rules are different here,a little voice in my head says.What Luciano wants won’t be the same as what your father wanted.I chew on my lower lip as anxiety creeps in.
What makes my soon-to-be husband tick? What does he fear? A man who keeps me close but won’t let me near him physically must fear something. What does he crave? Power? Control? If I can figure that out, maybe I can protect myself from whatever twisted game he’s playing. Maybe I can find the cracks in his armor before he finds all of mine.
I let out a slow exhale and drop onto the mattress with a muffled thud. This is a different cage than my father’s, but a cage nonetheless. I vow to learn Luciano’s game the way I learned Giovanni’s—by watching, enduring, and never letting him see the flickers of hope or despair that might become my undoing.
My husband, the man I gave myself to willingly, has taken me from one prison to another, but there’s a difference: here, I suspect the warden is as trapped as I am.
Chapter12
Luciano
Iwake before the sun fully climbs the horizon, when the sky is still more purple than gold. My body stirs even when my mind begs for a few more minutes of peace. Too many thoughts swirl in my head—dark, consuming, and tangled with confusion about the woman sleeping in the corner of my room.
For a few seconds, I remain still, listening to the quiet rhythms of the house. The walls feel different now that Gianna is here. Everything is the same on the surface—clean, orderly, the furniture exactly where it’s always been—but the air is charged with a tension I can’t shake. My gaze drifts to the corner, where a thin mattress lies on the floor.
