3. Ravenna
Ravenna
I feel ridiculous walking around in a wedding dress all afternoon. But as that Celtic bastard pointed out, I don’t have anything else to wear. Elena’s honeymoon bag is with her…wherever she may be.
All I have is my purse, the only thing that’s mine, since even this dress belongs to my twin.
My thoughts latch on to the incriminating evidence in my handbag—my ID.
Elena and I need to swap our ID cards if this is going to work.
Until then, I suppose I can claim that I lost mine.
Another lie. They’re piling up so quickly, I’m drowning in them.
The situation hits me solidly in my stomach. Dear God, what have I done?
And where the hell is Elena? I can’t believe she did this to us—to me.
Or should I start calling her Ravenna since we’re swapping identities?
I’m so confused—and tired. Adrenaline has been pumping through my veins all day, another spike hits whenever this Irishman speaks to me, or accidentally brushes his fingers over mine, or looks in my direction.
I’ve had barely a moment out of his suffocating presence.
He’s such an asshole. My fight, flight, or freeze response has been on high alert for hours now.
I know our families are enemies, so I don’t know why I was taken by surprise when he confessed his hatred for me.
Me. What did I ever do to him besides be born into the Pontrelli family?
But men like him enjoy holding grudges for as long as they can.
I’m in for an eternity of hell. Who knows what evil things he’ll do to me now that I’m his property.
My heart slams against my ribcage when the big brute opens the door to our private bungalow and flips on the lights.
It’s a honeymoon suite. No privacy except for the bathroom.
The bed practically sits in the middle of the floor, covered in rose petals and chocolates, arranged in the shape of a heart.
The romantic scene before me is in stark contrast to the hostile energy sparking between me and my asshole husband. It mocks us. Tentatively, I take a step forward.
I can’t believe I’m married. This wasn’t supposed to happen, at least not like this. Can I still get an annulment if I chicken out tonight?
Yeah, and jump right back into war, only worse this time because any trust that’s been freshly forged between the Italians and Irish will be completely shattered. Irreparable. Forever.
No, I’m stuck in this mess. This is my life now. And I have no one to blame but myself.
The Irishman shuts the door behind me, and I jump at the click . The sound is too loud in this quiet space. In the distance, a gull shrieks and the ocean waves whoosh along the beach. This should be paradise, not purgatory.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, arms crossed, as he leans against the door frame.
“No.” My nerves are so jittery I can barely keep down that single martini I had on the plane.
“Good. Take off your dress.”
My mouth falls open. “Excuse me? I don’t have anything else to wear. Remember?”
“You won’t need anything to wear for the rest of tonight.” His pale gaze sweeps down my body. Instead of lust, I see annoyance in his eyes.
“I won’t need clothing? Oh… Oh . You mean we’re going to do… that …right now?” My throat constricts. This is all happening too fast.
He looks exasperated. “Yes. As soon as you take off your damn clothes.”
“But what if I…” I can’t think of a valid excuse to delay the inevitable. I just didn’t expect this to happen so soon. But duh, it’s our wedding night.
The brute stares me down. He knows I’m stalling and doesn’t care. Insensitive prick .
I fold my arms, mirroring his pose. “Where are the clothes you bought for me? I don’t see them.”
“They’ll be here in the morning.”
I scoff. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you? You left me with nothing to wear tonight out of spite.”
One corner of his mouth twitches, and it’s all the confirmation I need.
He’s a real bastard, trying to make me feel vulnerable, and uncomfortable, on every single level—and he’s succeeding.
I can only imagine what the rest of this night will be like.
I doubt there’s a gentle bone in his massive, lethal body.
He’s going to hurt me, and enjoy every second of it just because this morning my last name was Pontrelli . The name of his enemy.
“Take off the dress. I won’t ask again.”
“You didn’t ask the first time,” I snipe, almost regretting it, but don’t. I’m not going to let this man walk all over me. Call me stubborn—or just plain reckless.
If there’s anything I’ve learned over the years, it’s that ultimately, whether you sass back or not, it doesn’t matter—either way, you’ll get punished.
For a couple of years in my late teens, I held my tongue.
I did everything I was told and it didn’t make any difference, my compliance was never enough to avoid a beating.
At least when I say what I want, the beatings come sooner and are over more quickly because of it.
I don’t have to walk on eggshells anymore, waiting and hoping that I might escape punishment for one small mistake.
If my asshole husband wants to punish me for my disrespect, then by all means, let him have at it. My father couldn’t break me, and he’s been trying for years, so this man won’t either.
The Irish bastard lifts a scarred blond brow, taking me in as if he’s seeing me for the first time. He’s considering what to do with me, I can see that in his pale blue eyes.
After a few strained moments, he nods, once, as if to himself. He produces a knife from his tuxedo pocket. Flipping it open with a quick wrist moment, he approaches me.
My pulse stutters. Horrified, I stumble backward, my hands outstretched. “Wait. Please. What are you doing?”
Slaps, punches, and kicks, I can deal with those, but not knives. Is he going to carve me up like someone did to his face? I’ve heard horror stories about the Irish and their brutality, but I didn’t think?—
The backs of my knees hit the bed and the huge Celt takes that opportunity to grab me, spinning me around so my back presses to his chest.
I scream.
He tears off my veil, tossing it aside. Grabbing the back of my wedding dress, he slices it open all the way from my neck to my hips.
As my initial shock recedes, I struggle against him. “Get your hands off me, you filthy Irish cocksucker!”
He freezes, my words must have momentarily stunned him. His fingers curl around my neck, and he spins me toward him, dipping his face close to mine. Our breaths mingle.
“ Filthy Irish cocksucker? Well, well, don’t you have a naughty mouth on you?
” He’s so close that I expect him to kiss me.
But he doesn’t. “Next time I tell you to do something, you’ll do it.
Obedience. Respect. Honesty. That’s all I ask of you every single day.
It’s not too much.” He gives my throat a squeeze, fear jolts through me.
“We’re consummating this marriage tonight, as per the terms of the contract.
Now tell me, do you want it fast or slow?
We can either get it over and done with, which will be more painful, or we can take it slow, which will be more enjoyable for you.
I don’t mind either way. The choice is yours, wife . ”
I meet his cold gaze, my heart nearly pounding out of my chest. “Just get it over with,” I say through gritted teeth.
He searches my face, then releases me. The warmth of his body disappears as he steps away and pockets his knife, leaving me in the ruined wedding gown.
I hold the front to my chest in a futile effort to cover myself, waiting to see what he’ll do next.
Tight anticipation coils in my stomach as my pulse thunders.
“Have it your way. Now drop the dress, I want to look at you first.” His voice rasps against my jittery nerves.
Grudgingly, I do as I’m told this time. If I want to get this over and done with as soon as possible there’s no point in delaying any longer. I pull the ruined scraps of fabric from my body until I’m standing in front of him wearing only white satin heels.
Heat spread across my chest, up my neck, to my cheeks. I’ve never felt more exposed in my entire life. Nor more vulnerable.
His gaze drops from my face to my breasts, then lower, and I battle with the urge to cover myself up.
This is what he bargained for, my body is now his, signed for on the dotted line and paid for in blood. My fate was always to end up just like this. From the day I was born, this moment was inevitable.
With a shuddering exhale, I accept my destiny, and hold my head high.
He extends one giant hand toward me, and I flinch when he palms my bare breast. Steeling myself, I lock my jaw, stare at his chest, and endure his rough touch. His thumb sweeps over my nipple, and it hardens to a peak. I do my best to ignore the fluttery sensations and heat pooling low in my belly.
He can take my body, but he’ll never have my pleasure. Not that he wants it anyway.
Reaching out, he palms my other breast too, teasing my nipples until they are both rock hard. Unexpectedly, it feels good. I fight the instinct to arch my back in a silent plea for more.
Then he moans.
The sound catches me by surprise. My gaze flicks up to his scarred face. His pale blue eyes burn with unbridled desire, and he bites down on his full bottom lip like he’s attempting to deny himself a taste of me. A hint of pink smears his angular cheekbones.
It takes my brain a minute to realize that it’s my body, me , that has done this to him. Melted his cold, icy exterior, to reveal the fiery blaze beneath. I narrow my eyes. Does he really hate me, or does he hate how much he wants me?
Warmth spreads beneath my skin, but I ignore it, focusing on my resolve. “I chose to get this over and done with quickly. What do you think you are doing?”