Chapter 27
27
GIANNA
The first thing I do when I wake up in Michael’s empty bed is rush to my own room and check my pills. My shoulders, knotted with tension, finally relax when I see they’re right where I left them. I snatch them out with trembling fingers.
I’m only supposed to use one per day, but after last night’s unprotected sex—without waiting the advised forty-eight hours—I pop two into my mouth, desperate for the meds to flood my system faster and erase my recklessness.
Fingers crossed. Hell, toes crossed too.
Seriously, universe, if you ever plan on doing me a solid, now would be the time.
Shoving down my nerves, I make my way downstairs, already knowing Michael will be waiting for me. He’s made it his personal mission to sit with me for breakfast every morning since I got here—a gesture that feels both possessive and oddly considerate. Sure enough, he’s already positioned at his usual spot at the dining table when I walk in.
Heat floods my cheeks the second I see him, and I find myself unable to meet his gaze directly.
God. How can I look at him when all I can think about is how he masterfully played my body last night? And I can't believe I just fell asleep right after like some exhausted kitten. Embarrassing.
Lost in my mortification, I almost miss it when he stands. My brows knit together as he walks over and slides into the chair right next to me. “W–what are you doing?”
“You were too far away,” he answers, his blue eyes glistening playfully as they rake over me. Then his gaze drops to my neck and darkens with unmistakable male satisfaction.
Oh.
I fight the overwhelming urge to slap my hand over the hickey he so shamelessly branded on me.
I can’t believe the bastard left such an obvious mark. As if coming inside me again wasn’t enough! The audacity of this man knows no bounds.
I swallow my irritation. Whatever. I’m already on the pill. He says he’s clean, and I believe him. I’ve also done my part to prevent any unwanted surprises.
That's all that matters in the grand scheme of things. No point picking a fight with him this morning.
Gracie brings in our food, and I quickly flip my hair forward, letting the long strands cascade over the damning evidence on my neck—something I should have done before I left my room. Michael notices immediately, and his mouth flattens into a hard line.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Is he seriously pissed that I don’t want to flaunt his damn mark to the housekeeper? I roll my eyes at him. Deal with it, husband.
The moment Gracie leaves, tension thickens the air between us. I expect him to call me out, so I rush to speak first.
But he beats me to it.
“What did you say Elira forgot yesterday?”
My heart drops like a stone into my stomach, and I hold my breath, eyes widening before I can control my reaction. Shit. Shit. Shit. “What?” I force myself to laugh lightly. “I thought we’d gone over that already last night?”
“I thought we had too, but then I realized you never actually said what she forgot.” He points out as he picks up his spoon.
I grab my own and scoop up the steaming soup, using those precious seconds of blowing cool air on it and swallowing to frantically scramble for an excuse. But all I come up with is: “Her purse.”
Fuck, Gianna, really? Her purse? That’s the best you could do?
Michael raises a skeptical brow that screams bullshit. “She forgot her purse? And she had to come get it herself? None of Maximo’s men could’ve picked it up for her?”
Damn it. I keep my gaze firmly glued to my plate, knowing my eyes would betray me in an instant. The porcelain suddenly becomes the most fascinating thing in the world as I shrug with forced casualness. “How would I know?”
His “Hmm” drips with disbelief, but before he can continue his interrogation, I quickly flip the conversation on him.
“By the way, when can I start working? You promised to let me do the work I’m passionate about.” I inject just enough accusation into my tone to distract him.
His expression shifts, his head tilting slightly. “You still remember that?”
White-hot indignation flares inside me. I glare at him, any pretense of demure submission shattering on the spot. “What do you mean ‘still remember’? Of course I do. Why? Did you just lie to get me to marry you? Am I just going to rot here as a prisoner who warms your bed every night? Am I?—”
“Gianna.” He raises a hand, cutting me off with an exasperated chuckle. “I didn’t lie to you. Unlike some, I don’t lie. I find it a pointless task since, sooner or later, the truth always comes out.”
A cold sweat breaks out along my spine.
Is that a dig at me? No. No way. He can’t know about my lies about why Elira came here. He can’t . Right?
“I might’ve forgotten I said that,” he continues, oblivious to my internal panic, “but now that you’ve reminded me, I’ll start to work on it.”
My shoulders relax slightly. Okay. It wasn’t a dig—just my guilty conscience working overtime, injecting meaning into innocent words.
“Start work? You don’t have to do anything. Just let me register for the exam to get my license, and then I can apply to some hospitals here and–”
“No,” he says darkly, cutting me off.
“No?” I echo incredulously.
“You can take the license exam, whatever.” He waves an imperious hand in the air. “But what you’re not going to do is work at a hospital where I can’t control what’s happening. Give me some time to build a hospital or buy one—and secure it.”
I blink. “You want to build a hospital?”
“If I have to. I don’t know what your uncle or Carlo might try, and I refuse to leave your security to chance. I’m not risking you like that. Not ever.”
…Oh.
My heart does the craziest thing ever—it softens towards him. Maybe he isn’t such a terrible person.
I’ve never had anyone give a shit about me or my safety, let alone go to extraordinary lengths to ensure it. Maybe my parents did when they were alive, but I barely remember them or the time I had with them.
Maybe that’s why I find it… hot that he’s being this ridiculously protective.
“…Alright,” I murmur.
Then, after a brief hesitation, I drop my spoon into my plate and shift closer to him. His eyes widen slightly in surprise as I lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek.
“Thank you… husband.” I was initially going for an actual term of endearment, but it got stuck in my throat, and ‘husband’ slipped out instead.
The tips of his ears flush red, and for several long moments, he just stares at me, his throat working. He likes it. He really likes it.
My heart goes light with satisfaction as I file that information away in my brain. That little word has power. I can use it to get my way with him sometime in the future.
Smirking to myself, I settle back in my seat, picking up my spoon again, already feeling victorious.