Defiant Vows

Chapter Thirteen

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

VIVIANA.

I ran.

I ran from my husband like a coward. And now, I’m stuck in a car with him for the next hour, suffocating on the noxious, thick cloud of awkwardness fumigating in the back seat.

Kill. Me. Now.

I keep my gaze glued out the window, staring at the sunset bleeding across the sky but not really seeing it. Instead, every fiber in my body focuses on the looming presence of the man beside me. He’s on his phone, but, unlike the first time we rode in the car together, I’m not bothered by his distraction. In fact, I hope he spends the entirety of our drive to the city scrolling through his emails.

After fleeing from his office, I shut myself in my bedroom and seriously considered staying in Bedford. It’d taken a few minutes of deep breathing to convince myself that it’d only be more suspicious if I stayed home. If I acted like I felt ashamed of what I’d done.

I told myself I’d hold my head high and pretend like nothing had happened. Easier said than done.

Now, I wish I’d stayed at the house.

My prayers for a silent trip go unanswered when Luc locks his phone screen and sets the device aside. Even with my eyes planted firmly out the window, I can feel his gaze burning into me. “Viviana?”

My belly knots. “Hm?”

“You don’t need to be embarrassed.”

“Oh, good,” I bite back, refusing to turn toward him for fear that he’d witness the devastating mortification heating my cheeks. “Thanks.”

He chuckles, low and amused. “It’s normal to be curious. To want to watch.”

I inwardly cringe. Of course, I’m embarrassed that he caught me, but the source of my shame lies in the fact that I liked it. I more-than-liked it. I wanted more. For the briefest moment, I’d wanted to join him—a man I swore to hate just a few weeks ago! What does that say about me?

“I know,” I manage, mustering an air of nonchalance before turning to look him in the eye. “Still, I’m sorry for invading your privacy.”

Humor still dances across his features. “I never said I cared.”

That knot in my stomach tightens. “Well, believe me, it’s never going to happen again. Ever,” I add, for good measure.

His lips curl in an infuriating smirk, and it prompts me to continue. The words spill from my mouth faster than I can stop them. “In fact, if you don’t want to be stuck fucking your own hand, you don’t have to be. Our marriage isn’t real. You can go back to sleeping with your girlfriends or lovers or whoever. I know most men in the Cosa Nostra have mistresses. Don’t stop on my account.”

I force as much conviction into my voice as possible, though the words taste bitter on my tongue. They turn my stomach and jumble into a nausea-inducing tangle in my gut.

Both of Luc’s eyebrows lift, entertained. “Noted.”

At that moment, his phone buzzes on the seat between us. We hold each other’s gaze for a beat before he picks it up and reads whatever message came through.

This dreadful conversation might finally be over. We can move on like it never happened at all. The tension drains from my shoulders, and I relax more fully against the leather seat.

Several minutes pass before Luc speaks again.

“Viviana…” His tone is serious—stern. He waits until he has my eyes before continuing. “Under no circumstances are you allowed to even think about fucking another man.”

My eyes widen, lips cracked open. He’s already turned back to his phone, leaving me to wonder where the hell that sense of possessiveness came from. And why it made my heart do silly little front flips in my chest.

“You’ve got a nice place here.” I slowly spin around, eyes wide as they take in the expansive penthouse apartment. “Very bachelor pad-esque.”

Unsurprisingly, Luc’s New York City residence rests in the heart of Manhattan, in a guarded high-rise that undoubtedly houses countless other city elites. No paintings decorate the walls, nor trinkets on the furniture. The expansive living room boasts two long couches and a coffee table in front of a television stand. If I have to guess, the rest of the penthouse is equally extravagant and bare.

Luc, who strode into the apartment in front of me, ignores my compliments and gestures toward a doorway across the room. “Our bedroom is through that door.”

That brings my feet to a staggering halt. “ Our?”

“ Our, ” he repeats, drawling the word with a smirk. My surprise must show, for he continues. “Freddy and Lex—” His personal guards, I’ve come to learn— “are taking the other two guest rooms.”

He turns toward the bedroom, diligent fingers working on unbuttoning the top of his dress shirt along the way. I wrinkle my nose, unsettled by the idea of spending the night in the same room as him. A few weeks ago, I doubt he would’ve allowed it. He probably would’ve demanded that Freddy and Lex share a room to allow us our sacred privacy. Now…

Well, I suppose watching a man masturbate in the shower changes the rules of the game. I have no one to blame but myself.

With a new knot clenching in my belly, I follow him to the master suite. It’s just as empty and tasteless as the rest of the penthouse, though immaculately clean and modern. Not my style in the slightest but seeded with potential. The dark gray wall coloring would look divine with a dramatic Rococo canvas above the four-poster bed, and he can certainly afford it…

Luc’s voice breaks through my musings, and my eyes flicker toward him, now clad in only his undershirt and slacks. “I’ll have Freddy pick up something for dinner. What do you want?”

“What about Greek? I can find a menu online and— Luc! What are you doing!”

While I am speaking, Luc unfastens his belt and fly, and his finely-tailored pants slide down his long legs. His boxer briefs hug his thick, tree-trunk-like thighs, and, as he turns to face me front-on, my eyes unwillingly trail from the v-shaped slabs on his hips and land on the large mass between his legs. He’s not erect, but that does little to quell my panic.

Heat floods my cheeks, trickling down my neck and lower.

A mischievous grin shifts on his lips, and, without a care in the world, he strides toward a wardrobe by the bathroom door. My cheeks flame as his shaft presses and shifts against the tight fabric withe every step. “Come now, wife. Don’t you think we’re past modesty?”

I glare at him, face red as a tomato. “I’m going to order dinner.” The words are seethed. “Make sure you’re dressed by the time I get back.”

His laughter follows me out of the room.

We sit on the leather sofa while we eat dinner. Luc spends most of our meal skimming through complicated excel sheets, and I enjoy the season premiere of an outrageously filthy reality dating show with Freddy and Lex. The big men don’t say much, but I’m ninety-nine percent certain they’ll want to watch the next episode with me.

As soon as he’s finished eating and preparing for his meetings in the morning, Luc excuses himself to bed. I go to great lengths to avoid joining him. By one in the morning, I’m staring bleary-eyed at the television, watching a chef prepare a glazed salmon for a ‘perfect summer dinner party’ and contemplating whether to risk a sore back by sleeping on the couch. Eventually, my aching spine gets the better of me, and I creep to the master bedroom.

Luc left a light on in the bathroom to guide me through the foreign, shadowed terrain. He’s a shapeless mass beneath the blankets, securely tucked on his side of the king-sized mattress. It’s a huge bed—more than wide enough to accommodate two people with room to spare. Even so, my mind buzzes at the knowledge that, in a matter of minutes, I’ll be sharing it with him.

I take my time getting ready as if a few extra deep breaths in the bathroom mirror might calm my racing heart. It’s all pointless. By the time I slide beneath the covers, nerves tighten my entire body. Curling into a ball on my side, I situate myself as close to the edge of the mattress as possible.

Luc doesn’t stir. His breathing remains slow, deep and measured. Soothing.

I focus on it. On him. Each inhale and exhale. The soft whoosh of air slipping through the crack in his sensual lips. I close my eyes, count the breaths to one hundred, then start over again.

When consciousness finds me again, I’m hot.

Burning.

Sweat dampens my brow, but I can’t help but snuggle closer to the source of the warmth in front of me. My arm tightens around the smooth, hard object, and I inhale the clean scent of bar soap and mint, rubbing my nose in small circles to further immerse myself in it.

“ Hmm, ” I moan, drawing my knees up until they fit perfectly in their own warm little nook.

I can’t remember the last time I slept so well. Not since I returned from Florence and moved into Luc’s Bedford home, to be certain.

I stiffen.

Wait.

Realization crashes over me like a bucket of ice water over the head, and I shoot upright. Oh my God.

The large, warm mass beside me shifts. Luc props himself up on his elbows, wearing only a smug grin above the blankets that pool at his waist. Had I been cuddling — no, spooning — him?

“Morning,” he rasps. “I was wondering when you’d wake up.”

I hastily scoot back to my side of the bed, desperate to put some space between our bodies. “Why didn’t you wake me up?” I demand, drawing the covers up to my stomach. I wore a t-shirt to bed—and a sports bra for good measure—but feel terribly exposed.

That wicked grin grows. “Why would I do that? You were sleeping so peacefully. I can’t say I pegged you as a the cuddling type, though.”

“I’m not,” I groan, burying my head in my hands. “Especially not as the big freakin’ spoon .”

Luc chuckles and neatly folds his arms behind his head. His biceps bulge, and masculine dark hair adorns his chest. “You’d prefer to be the little spoon in the future?”

I scoff, though my cheeks warm. “Not your little spoon.”

His eyes harden, and any trace of my smiling husband disappears. Something dangerous flashes in his gaze, something bordering on unhinged, and I’m reminded of the tales of Luciano’s murderous reputation. Since arriving in Bedford, I haven’t seen that side of him.

“ Mine and no one else’s, Viviana,” he warns, and one hand reaches out to grasp my chin, forcing me to look him in the eyes. “Let this be your warning. If any man touches you, I’ll feed him his own fingers.”

Unease skitters down my spine, but, in the same breath, a reckless current of heat sweeps through me. I bite the inside of my cheek. “Did Elenora receive similar warnings, you caveman?”

“No,” he answers, and his hand drifts away from my chin, only for his feather-light fingers to glide down my arm and settle over my own, enveloping my hand within his rough one. “But you are not Elenora.”

I pause. It’s not the first time I’ve been told that, but it is the first time that it doesn’t sound like an insult.

Suddenly, my throat feels tight. I struggle to swallow—to conjure some witty retort—especially as Luc’s thumb grazes over my knuckles. It leaves a trail of tingling in its wake, and goosebumps pepper my arms. I catch myself wishing that his tender fingers might explore other parts of my body, and it unnerves me.

“Viviana.” His thumb pauses over my ring-finger on my left hand. “Where is your wedding ring?”

“Oh, I took it off weeks ago. I kind of forgot about it,” I state, dumbly. I’m surprised he hasn’t noticed its absence until now. “It doesn’t fit.”

A scowl twists his hard features, accentuated by the flaring of his nostril, and I watch, eyes wide, as he pushes up from the mattress and strides toward the bathroom. His dark gray boxer-briefs hug his taut ass like a second-skin.

“Get up,” he demands without looking back at me. “We have an errand to run before my meetings begin.”