Chapter 3
“Every. Single. Inch.”
The words hang between us like a blade, and I can't breathe. Alessandro circles me slowly, a predator savoring the moment before the kill.
"Don't worry, princess. I've unwrapped enough presents to know how to do it without tearing the paper. Unless, of course, you prefer it rough. Some of my favorites do."
The white silk of my wedding dress—Frances's dress—feels like tissue paper under his gaze, offering no protection from those green eyes that see too much.
"The zipper," he says, voice dark as the devil. "Undo it."
My hands shake as I reach behind me, fumbling with the delicate zipper.
Mrs. Hewson had it sewn specifically to be difficult, requiring help to remove.
A virgin's protection, she'd said with that sharp smile.
But there's nothing protective about the way Alessandro watches me struggle, his patience more terrifying than anger would be.
"I can't reach—"
"Then ask nicely." He settles into the suite's leather chair like a king on his throne, crystal tumbler of whiskey appearing in his hand from the bar cart. "Ask your husband for help."
The word 'husband' singes my ears. This man thinks I'm Frances Hewson. Thinks he's married to a princess, not the servant. If he knew the truth…
"Please," I whisper, hating how small my voice sounds. "Help me."
"Come here."
Each step toward him feels like walking through quicksand. The carpet is plush beneath my silk shoes—shoes that cost more than I made in three months. When I'm close enough, he sets down his glass and spins me with surprising gentleness, his fingers finding the zipper with practiced ease.
"Tell me about Switzerland," he says casually, guiding me through the suite. "The Hewsons mentioned you were at one of those exclusive schools."
My pulse quickens. I force myself to nod, keeping my answer vague. "It was… peaceful," I manage.
"Peaceful." He repeats the word slowly, testing it. "I imagine it would be, hidden away from the world," he muses, breath warm against my neck as he works the zipper down tooth by tooth. "They must have changed you considerably. Your hands, for instance."
I freeze. "My hands?"
"Calluses, Frances. Faint, but there." The zipper stops at the small of my back, cool air kissing newly exposed skin. "What exactly were they teaching you in Switzerland? Manual labor?"
"I—tennis. Lots of tennis." The lie comes out strangled.
"Tennis." His finger traces my spine, making me shiver. "And this scar here, just below your shoulder blade? Also tennis?"
The scar from when I fell carrying a tray of crystal, cutting myself on the shards while Mrs. Hewson screamed about the expense. I can't tell him that.
"Skiing accident," I manage.
"So many accidents." He turns me to face him again, and the dress, loose now, threatens to fall. Only my hands clutching the bodice keep me covered. "So many little mysteries."
His eyes are the color of forest shadows, dark and dangerous. This close, I can smell his cologne. He's beautiful in the way a weapon is beautiful, all sharp edges and lethal purpose.
"Take it off."
"I—"
"That wasn't a request, wife."
The last word is deliberate, weighted with ownership. My options are nonexistent. Run, and he'll catch me. Refuse, and he'll do it himself. Either way, this ends with me exposed in every sense.
I let the dress fall.
It pools at my feet in a whisper of silk. I stand before him in the white lingerie Mrs. Hewson selected—virginal lace that does nothing to hide how my body trembles. His gaze travels slowly over every inch of exposed skin like he's memorizing a map to conquered territory.
"Turn around."
I obey, biting my lip hard enough to taste copper. Behind me, I hear the clink of ice in his glass as he takes another sip.
"The Hewson estate," he says conversationally, like I'm not standing nearly naked in front of him. "Quite the fortress. Your mother runs it like a military operation."
My blood runs cold. What else did he notice during negotiations?
"Funny thing," he continues, and I hear him stand, feel him moving closer. "You seemed so different in your photograph. Mousy, your father called you once. Forgettable."
His hands settle on my shoulders, warm against my chilled skin.
"You're not forgettable at all, are you?"
"People change." The words come out too fast, too desperate.
"In three years?" His thumbs stroke my collarbones, and I fight not to lean into the touch. When was the last time someone touched me with anything other than violence or dismissal? "Tell me, Frances. What happened in Switzerland that transformed you so completely?"
"I grew up—"
"Liars," he cuts me off, spinning me to face him, "always over-explain. Try again."
His hands frame my face, forcing me to meet his gaze. There's something almost gentle in his touch, at odds with the danger radiating from every line of his body.
"I'm your wife," I say, defaulting to the only truth I can tell.
"My wife," he repeats, thumbs stroking my cheekbones. "Yes, you are. Which means you're under my protection." His voice drops to barely above a whisper. "So tell me, what are you so afraid of? What has you trembling like a rabbit in a snare?"
The irony would make me laugh if I weren't so terrified. He is what I'm afraid of. Him and what he'll do when he discovers his bride is a fraud, that the alliance he thinks he's secured is built on a foundation of lies.
"You," I admit, because it's true enough. "I'm afraid of you."
Something shifts in his expression. "Smart girl." He releases my face, stepping back to pour himself another whiskey. "Fear keeps you alive in our world. But secrets? Secrets get you killed."
He doesn't touch me again, just stands there sipping his drink while I shiver in my lingerie. The silence stretches, taut as a bowstring.
"Get in bed," he finally says.
My heart pounds so hard I'm sure he can hear it. "Are you going to—"
"Rape you?" He sounds almost amused. "No, princess. When I fuck you—and I will fuck you—you'll be begging for it. Tonight, you're going to lie there and think about what happens when I find out what you're hiding. Because I will find out. I always do."
I climb into the massive bed on shaking legs, pulling silk sheets up to my chin. Alessandro dims the lights but doesn't undress, just settles back in his chair with his whiskey, watching me in the darkness.
"Sleep well, Mrs. Rosetti," he says, and there's something almost mocking in the title.
I close my eyes, but sleep is impossible with him there, a patient predator waiting for me to break. Every breath feels too loud in the silence, every shift of the sheets a betrayal of my wakeful state.
Tommy's face floats behind my eyelids—my brother, rotting in prison while I play dress-up in silk and diamonds. This is for him, I remind myself. Every lie, every moment of terror, it's all for him.
But Tommy can't protect me from Alessandro Rosetti.