Chapter 30
DANI
Dexter is making such a big deal about the cut on my lip. I’ve looked in the mirror and while it’s noticeable, it’s no big deal.
He thinks I need to go to the hospital, see a doctor, maybe get a stitch. I assure him I’ll be fine. He’s being too much. Too concerned. Too … worried.
“You’re beautiful. I just don’t want you to have a scar.”
He’s trying so hard not to look like he cares, but I see it in his eyes. “You don’t need to fuss over me so much.”
He gets up slowly, looking resigned. “It’s up to you. Do what you want.”
“I’m fine. The kick I gave—”
“Yes, you keep telling me how you dealt with the guy. I want to find the fucker. I want to find him and kick the shit out of him.”
I reach out, touching his arm. He’s rigid, tension twisting under his skin, anger coursing through his veins. “Don’t do that. Please don’t do that.”
His jaw tightens, but I see something in his eyes. Something that softens my heart and makes me think he really cares for me. Or is he like this with anyone? Because he’s rough and rugged, a protector by nature. Is this just who he is? Or is this because I’m his wife?
“I hate that you got hurt,” he mutters. “You’re my responsibility.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Yeah, you keep saying that. I understand that you can take care of yourself, but you’re my wife.”
This constant referral to me being his wife makes me sit up. “In name only,” I say, keeping my tone light and teasing.
“You said it, Daniela. In name only.” His jaw hardens.
“We’re not husband and wife, Dexter. We don’t do the things husbands and wives do.” I don’t like goading him unnecessarily, but I sense he feels things, even if he won’t admit it. He’ll be running scared for the next eleven months. I can see it, lingering just beneath the surface, that he cares for me. I need to know how deep that goes.
His eyes snap to mine. I want to break down his barriers. I want to talk to him. I want to delve into all the things he buries, the things that hurt him. I can reach into that shell where he keeps them all locked away. If only he’d let me.
But later that night, he comes into my room. Checking on me. Watching over me.
“What are you doing, Dexter?” I ask, still half-asleep, then I wake up for maybe the third time that night to find him bent over by my bed, stroking my forehead.
“Checking to see that you’re not concussed or anything.”
“I’m not. Now please, leave me alone so I can sleep.”
He slowly straightens and walks towards the door. “We can sleep in the same bed if you want,” he offers, turning around.
My eyelids fly wide open. “Will you come into my room, or shall I go to yours?”
“Any way you want.” He stands there, hovering in my doorway like a skulking beast. A man who’d kill anyone who dared to hurt me again.
I turn on the bedside lamp and wipe my hands over my face. His eyes falls to my skimpy satin tank top. Without even looking down I know my nipples have peaked. He sees it, too, because he shoves his hands in his pockets and looks away quickly.
“You want me to sleep with you?” I ask, having fun with the innuendo. This man is so guarded and emotionally shutdown, but a little light flirting might just coax him into opening up.
“I want to protect you.”
My fickle little heart lights up. So you do care? That you do have feelings for me. But I don’t say what I’m thinking, because I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t assume anything. I won’t lay my emotions bare. I try a different tactic. “You think you can protect me by sleeping with me?”
“Sharing the same bed, Daniela. There’s a difference.”
I sit up taller, rest my back against the soft headboard, watch his eyes drop to my breasts. “The mugger, or kidnapper, or beast, or mythical scary monster, isn’t going to break into this apartment and do anything to me, so, please go to sleep, in your bed, and leave me to sleep peacefully in mine.”
He drags his gaze away, mutters a “Good night,” and leaves.
But the next day, and for the few days after that, he doesn’t go to work. Instead, he stays at home with me, pacing around like some caged predator, prowling, checking on me constantly.
On the third day of him being at home. I can’t focus with him skulking around, watching me like I might fall apart at any second. “Dexter, if you don’t go to work, I will. And I’ll do it from the coffee shop where Cari has her flower stand. Near where I got mugged,” I add, for emphasis.
“Not happening.” Then he casually announces that he’s assigned a security detail to me for whenever I leave the apartment.
I sigh. “Then, I’m safe, and you can go to work again. We need to go about our lives as normal, remember? We’re married on paper only.” I could get used to this, and if I do, leaving at the end of the year will break my heart.
“I just wanted to be around in case you needed anything. Like, for me to heat you your lunch, or get you a coffee.”
“I appreciate that. You really are a sweet and thoughtful man, even though you try to show the world that you’re a heartless beast, but I don’t need to be fussed over.”
“Fine. Have it your way.”
He backs away from the door, and I finally get an inkling of the thickness of his steel walls, the ones that guard his heart and emotions. He thinks I’m going to start talking about his past, somehow weave it into our conversation if he stays here.
He’s like a changed man. Soft and caring, and he wants so much to be here for me. To take care of me. Snippets from our earlier conversations keep coming back. I like him being like this. He’s got a good heart. But he’s also the man who doesn’t commit. Who likes sex. Who has hookups instead of relationships.
What if he’s so caring and devoted to me, because his last girlfriend is out of the country? What if he has an eye to getting back with her once our year is up?
Forget what if. He probably will. And where will that leave me?
This man has many dimensions, many faces. The last thing I want is to get used to the good Dexter.
Thankfully, he goes to work the next day.
I haven’t told my parents about what happened. Luckily, the news hasn’t broken in the press over there.
But here? It’s a different story.
Photos were taken at the scene. People recorded the assault on their phones, then leaked them to the press.. Someone snapped a shot of me mid-kick, taking down the guy and from that they were able to get the guy and arrest him.
***
Before we know it, the day of the charity gala sneaks up on us.
“We don’t have to go,” Dexter says. “If you’re not up for it.” He’s standing in the doorway, watching me hanging up the dress I plan to wear tonight.
“Your father expects us to.”
“Daniela, you got into a fight with a guy—”
“That was a week ago, and I took care of it! I hope you’re not planning on doing anything stupid now that they’ve found him.”
He exhales sharply. “The old man told me to stay away. He said it’d be bad for our reputation if I kicked the shit out of him.”
“He talks sense.”
“Sometimes. We don’t have to go to this,” he says again.
I trace a finger over my lip. The cut has scabbed over, and with enough concealer, I can attempt to cover it a little. “I can go.”
“Fine. We should get dressed.” It sounds to me like he doesn’t want to go. “That’s a nice dress.” He eyes my outfit that I’ve laid out on the bed for longer than seems normal. “Huge slit on the side.”
“You disapprove?”
“No. No, you wear what you want. I just meant that you’ll look gorgeous, and sexy.”
My chest flutters. I shouldn’t let it mean anything. We’re not supposed to flirt or say anything that might hint at how we really feel, not after everything that’s happened, but the way he says it, like the words escaped his pride to reach me, makes it impossible not to smile. I file his compliment away in a quiet corner of my mind to dissect and replay later, when I lie in bed wishing things were different.
He’s become possessive since this incident happened, but looking at him, I think I detect a hint of jealousy. I don’t understand it. He’s got no one to be jealous of.
“I thought this slit might distract from my war wound.”
He grins, his gaze so soft, reminding me how much I love basking in his full attention. “You wear that dress, sweetheart. The old man said we needed to make a splash. You in that … you’re making a splash.”
“Okay.” I try not to look as despondent as I suddenly feel. His ‘sweetheart’ takes away from his compliment and reminds me that this is just an act. Instead, I smooth my hand over my deep emerald-green color, cut from slinky silk which clings to my body. It has a plunging neckline which hints more than it reveals, and I especially like the spaghetti straps that cross over my back. It’s revealing in a way that the black sequined dress I wore that first night wasn’t. The night Paul Knight summoned me to a soiree at his penthouse. The night I met the Knight family. The night my fate with Dexter was sealed.
“I’ve got just the thing for it,” he says, then disappears. I frown. He’s been acting strangely ever since I got mugged. Overly tender and concerned, to the point that it leaves me feeling flustered sometimes.
“Here.” He reappears, holding a bright blue Tiffany box.
“What’s that?” I peer at it, then at him.
“Open it.” I step closer, heart in my throat, because while fussing over me is one thing, buying me jewellery, Tiffany & Co jewellery, says something else. I tentatively open the box and gasp in complete shock. Inside are a pair of the most beautiful emerald-cut drop earrings and a fine platinum chain with a single emerald pendant. It’s simple and elegant, just how I like it.
I gape up at him. “Dexter ...”
“Do you like them?”
I nod, overcome with emotion. “How did you know that I was going to wear this?” But then I remember. He asked me last week what I was going to wear to the gala, when he told me we had to make an impression and make people believe we were madly in love. “You ... you didn’t have to,” I manage to choke out.”
“I wanted to.”
“Thank you.” I’m beyond touched by his thoughtfulness.
“It’s nothing.”
I hate how quickly and casually he says it. “It’s not nothing. This … is … everything.” Our gazes lock and we stay like that for a beat. Words rise up, on the tip of my tongue. Things that well up from deep within me.
“Let’s get ready and make a splash,” he says, pushing away from the door and leaving.
I take my time getting dressed.
With my makeup done, and my hair up, I slip on the necklace and earrings. When I step out of my bedroom, Dexter is already waiting. Standing outside my door like some kind of sentinel.
Except he’s not.
He’s my husband.
And he looks breathtakingly handsome in a tuxedo.
His gaze drags over me, dropping to my neck, my ears, then all the way down, and back up again. “You look … devastatingly beautiful. Almost regal,” he murmurs.
“Thank you. You look devastatingly, unforgettably, handsome. Like you’re about to break a million hearts.”
“The only heart I ever think about, is yours.”
His words hit me hard, like a secret he didn’t mean to say out loud. I don’t dare to breathe, but time slows down and in this precious moment all I’m aware of is his voice, his eyes, and the way those words imprint themselves on me like a promise I need him to make. Listening to him almost like he’s rambling to himself, I see admiration as he slowly takes me in from head to toe, then back up again. This man is swallowing me with his eyes.
“You’re made for this life, Daniela.”
Don’t fall for it.
I have to remind myself that he’s playing a part, and this is the rehearsal.
“A pretend wife?” I say, with some difficulty. Because nothing feels fake anymore.
He fixes me with a heated stare and something in my belly does somersaults. I think he’s going to say something else, but he doesn’t. It hasn’t been easy being around him, but we’ve gotten into a routine. We keep our conversations neutral, not venturing into those areas which might lead us to talk about our feelings. We sometimes eat together. Once or twice he’s come home late after meetings. The weekdays are easier to navigate.
The weekends not so much.
We try to stay out of each other’s way, but the simmering tension between us amplifies a hundredfold during these times. I go to bed feeling aroused, and I’ve lain in bed wondering if he’s aroused and thinking of me, the way I’ve been thinking of him.
This is how the past few weeks have been like, ever since we started to live together. There are days when I don’t think I can survive a year like this.
Now this. We’re both dressed up and looking our best and tonight we’ll have to put on a show for everyone.
Tonight is going to be impossibly difficult.
***
We get out of the sleek chauffeured limo.
There are crowds here, held back by barricades. A strong police presence. Cameras everywhere, and people yelling out for Dexter, and for me. I’m surprised they know my name. Dexter leans in, slipping his arm around my waist. “You’re famous on account of your mugging.” His lips brush close to my ear, his breath warm against my skin.
To anyone watching, it looks intimate. Natural. Real.
To me, I wish it were real.
I smile and try not to shiver as the scent of his cologne intoxicates my senses.
“You look more breathtaking with every passing minute,” he says, making my breath catch. That’s when I feel it again. That spark. That heat. What he did to me in the hot tub.
“You’re a really good actor, darling,” I whisper close in his ear. So close, my lip grazes his earlobe. All around us, the lights dazzles magnificently. A sea of lightbulbs explodes.
Dark eyes stare down at me. Steady, and sure. “Who says I’m acting?”
A firework explodes in my chest. I don’t have time to fully process his words because he grabs my hand and leads me into a plush hotel. Shimmering crystal chandeliers hang majestically above us, and marble floors echo with the sound of my heels. Thankfully, we’ve left the chaotic madness of the press and paparazzi behind us.
As I look around me, I’m aware that this world, Dexter’s world, is all about power, about perception. And tonight, we are the performance.
We play our roles perfectly. Smiling at people. Mingling. He strokes my arm, keeps a constant touch on me, reminding everyone, reminding me, that we belong together.
That I belong to him.
That I am Mrs. Knight.
We work the room well, and I forget the blur of faces and the names in so many introductions. Cari finds me and we hug and talk. She fusses over me, asking how I’m doing and we make plans to meet up again. Dexter is pulled away but Rio approaches and Cari excuses herself, saying she needs the restroom.
Rio grins, leaning in. “You’re a badass, you know that?”
I laugh. “So I’m told.”
“You really are. You have a reputation and now you’ve given the Knights some street cred.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“I’d take it as one.” He coughs lightly. “I hear Dexter’s been fussing over you?”
“Too much. I had to tell him to go to work, he was fussing so much it was starting to grate on my nerves.”
Rio throws his head back, a rich laugh spilling from him. “I had a feeling something like that might happen.” The way he says it, his voice laced with something cryptic, makes me wonder if these two have been talking about me.
Something cold and heavy lands in my stomach. All I really want is for my husband to talk to me.
***
DEX
We’re surrounded by New York’s elite. Billionaires, politicians, models draped over aging tycoons like expensive accessories. The usual.
The gala is a performance orchestrated by the old man. He’s here and so are my brothers, Jett and Zach, and the Italian Knights.. Everything about tonight, the cameras, the whispers, the knowing looks and tender touches, is a perfect PR stunt, courtesy of Paul Knight.
It’s his way of controlling the narrative. In his world the Knights don’t marry for love. They marry for power.
And I married Daniela.
But lately, every time I look at her, there’s a constant battle between my mind and my heart. I want her, but I can’t have her. I need her, but I will be the end of her. I pull Daniela to my side, keeping my hand on the small of her back, a proprietary touch as we work the room. She’s good at this, like she was born for this, all soft smiles and polite nods, accepting congratulations on our marriage as if it were real.
And maybe it is.
Maybe it was when she shuddered beneath me, when her body arched, when my name fell from her lips in breathless, broken gasps.
I don’t know what’s real anymore.
What I do know is that I hate this. The performance. The pretending. The way she’s here but not really with me.
Now that we’re living together, there have been many moments when she looks at me and everything blurs and slides to the background. Sometimes I almost forget we’re pretending. Especially when she got hurt. I was ready to do some serious damage to the guy who hurt her, but I’ve been warned by the old man, and Daniela, to refrain.
She still thinks it’s funny and she laughs about it because she fought him off. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed that she held her own, but some men can be dangerous.
If he’d had a knife, or a gun ...
I didn’t sleep the first night it happened, worrying about what might have been. Daniela thinks I fussed too much, but it would kill me if anything happened to her.
Cari comes up to us, just as someone beckons me over. I leave, telling Daniela I’ll be back shortly. But even as I converse with a business acquaintance, my eyes are on my wife. She’s not just beautiful. This woman is temptation wrapped in silk and I look away, because I want her.
I want her with me. I want her to be mine, the hypocrite that I am. I’m the one who told her we can’t get close. I look away, to catch my breath. To calm myself down. To tamp down the feelings I have for her. When I next look over, when I can’t help myself, I see Daniela and Rio standing in a corner, away from everyone else, and comfortable in a way that makes my skin itch. She’s leaning into him, her body turned toward him, her smile relaxed and soft. He’s beside her, drink in hand, his usual lazy grin firmly in place. Whatever the hell he just said made her laugh.
He’s looking at her the way I do.
Like he wants her.
Like he could have her.
My grip tightens around my glass and my jaw locks. I tell myself it’s nothing. That I don’t care, and I force myself to walk away before I do something reckless.
When we leave, I can’t bring myself to look at her, or talk to her. She senses it, because from the periphery of my vision I can see her looking at me every now and then as the car glides back to our apartment.
The second we step inside, the tension snaps.
I throw my keys onto the console table, and loosen my tie. My pulse is still hammering, my blood still running hot, and it has nothing to do with the whiskey.
I can’t control my rage anymore and storm into her bedroom. “What the hell was that?”
She turns, her large green eyes blinking. “What?”
I stalk toward her. “You and Rio.”
She lets out a short laugh, crossing her arms. “Are you serious?”
“You were all over him.”
Her mouth falls open. “Excuse me?”
I take another step, closing the space between us. “You laughed with him. You leaned into him. You—”
“Careful, Dexter, before you say something stupid.”
Her words are like a red flag to a bull. “What the fuck was that?”
“I’m sorry.” Her voice drips with sarcasm. “I didn’t know I had to ask your permission to have a conversation, especially with your brother of all people.”
My hands fist by my sides. “Daniela—”
“No.” She waggles and sleek finger at me. “You don’t get to do this.” Her voice rises, sharp with anger. “You don’t get to treat me like a possession when you’ve spent weeks pushing me away.”
I clench my jaw, my chest rising and falling too fast. “I haven’t—”
“Yes, you have,” she hisses. “You hold me close when people are watching, but the second we’re alone, you shut me out. You act like I’m nothing, and then you act like I’m yours. Which is it, Dexter?”
My pulse pounds. My vision tunnels. A charged silence fills the air between us. “You think I don’t want you?” My voice is hoarse, uneven.
She stills, her breath catching. “I think you don’t know what you want,” she fires back.
My last thread of restraint snaps. It’s been hell, trying to not think of her. Days and nights of tensions, unspoken words, pushing and pulling until neither of us knows what’s right and what’s wrong. What we can do and what we mustn’t.
I can’t take it anymore. I grab her face, my fingers tangling in her hair, backing her up against the nearest wall. She meets me with fire, her hands shoving at my chest before fisting my shirt, dragging me closer instead of pushing me away. Her nails dig into my arm, as my body presses flush against hers.
She pants, mouth open, tilting her chin up, I can’t help but crush my mouth to hers. She gasps, but I don’t give her a chance to argue, to resist, to do anything but feel this the way I do.
This is everything. Heat colliding with frustration, possession taking over. I’m on her, kissing and ravaging, taking what’s already mine, and she matches my fervor. Her hands work my jacket off my shoulders. She can’t quite pull it down, so I do it for her. Then she works the buttons of my shirt, and I try to figure out how to get her out of her dress. I need her naked, I need to feel her, because this is all I’ve dreamed about. Touching her, tasting her, fucking her.
My hunger unleashes in a torrent of heat and I drop fevered kisses along her jaw and neck, along her shoulders. I kiss and nip, and drag my mouth across her skin. She moans, low and gentle, and when my hand palms her breast, a guttural groan falls from her lips.
I can’t be gentle. Not tonight. I’ve been starving for her. I’m a desperate man, who needs urgent release.
“You want to know what I want?” I murmur lifting my face, dragging my hands down the curves of her body. “I want you … all of you.” I frantically search for the zipper, grow frustrated when I can’t find it.
“It’s at the back,” she murmurs. I turn her around, and see the hidden culprit at base of her neck. I try to drag it down, but the fucker is stuck, and my patience has gone.
“Jeez,” I mutter, then I just bunch up her dress. It’s easy to bunch up because of the huge slit on one side. I lift it as high as I can, just above her lower back.
“Better,” I rasp, pulling her back against me, needing to feel her naked against me. My hands run over her body. She’s wearing the tiniest thong, and the sight of her beautifully rounded bottom, naked save for a wisp of string, elicits a grunt from me.
I need to fuck her. Now.
My hands run all over, then in front, like a horny dimpled teenager who’s never seen a half-naked woman before. I touch and explore whatever I can of her. Her nipples are peaked and perfect, but still covered by the dress.
Fuck. I try something else. Dipping my hands to her front, I claim her pussy and discover her swollen, wet lips. My fingers sink in and she arches against me, sighing with contentment. I dip in a finger, then another, my cock hardening even more. She’s drenched, and ready. And I want her.
My tongue moistens in preparation, and I almost drop to my knees, wanting to taste her, to push her legs wide apart and feast on her. But she arches against me again, her back to my chest, pushing her soft, silky buttocks against my cock.
I lose it.
“Face down on the bed, Daniela. I need to fuck you.”
There’s no hesitation. She climbs on the bed eagerly gets on all fours, face down, bottom up. A beautiful sight that makes me salivate. Makes my cock strain against my pants. Her silk dress falls over one side, and I stare temptation in the face, barely able to hold back.