Chapter 4 Emma #2
He's right, and we both know it. My stomach is already cramping, empty since yesterday's wedding breakfast that I barely touched. But I lift my chin and meet his gaze steadily, thinking of Tommy in his cell, of Mrs. Hewson's threats, of how much I have to lose if I don't play this part perfectly.
"Longer than you think."
His smile is slow and dangerous. "We'll see."
An hour passes. He conducts business calls in Italian, his voice flowing through words I don't understand while his eyes never leave me. The language sounds like music and menace combined, reminders of shipments and territory disputes floating through my comprehension.
Another hour. He has dessert brought: something elaborate with chocolate and gold leaf. The smell makes my stomach clench painfully.
By the third hour, I'm light-headed. My hands shake where I've folded them in my lap. The smell of food has gone from tempting to nauseating and back again. He simply waits, patient as a hunter, occasionally mentioning things that sound like casual conversation but feel like threats.
"Your family," he says suddenly, and my blood freezes. "Are you close with them?"
I can't breathe. Does he know? Is this about Tommy? I force my face to remain neutral, but my hands clench harder in my lap.
"Family is everything," he continues, watching my reaction. "I'd do anything to protect mine. I assume you feel the same?"
"Yes," I whisper, because it's the truest thing I've said all night.
"Good. Then we understand each other." He leans forward. "Let me explain something about control, cara. Real control isn't about refusal. It's about choosing when to yield."
"I won't yield to you."
"You already have. You're here. You're wearing my ring. You're sitting at my table." His voice drops lower. "The only question is whether you'll do it gracefully or whether I'll have to outlast you until you collapse."
My vision swims slightly. When did I eat last? The champagne at the wedding doesn't count. Before that… I can't remember. The last two days blur together in a haze of terror and transformation.
Part of me wants to submit just to end this game, and that terrifies me. When did I become someone who would even consider surrender?
"Still feeling stubborn?" he asks, and there's something almost gentle in his tone now that makes it worse.
I want to say yes. Want to maintain this last small rebellion. But my body betrays me with a visible sway, and his expression shifts from patient to decided.
"Enough."
Alessandro stands and moves to my side in three quick strides. Before I can protest, he's pulled his chair next to mine, close enough that our knees touch. The contact sends unwanted electricity through me. He reaches for the plate, selecting a piece of bread, freshly baked this afternoon.
"Open your mouth."
"I can feed myself."
"You could, but you won't. So I will." He tears off a small piece, holding it to my lips. "The last person who refused to eat at my table lost three teeth. But you're my wife, so I'll be… accommodating. Please eat, cara mia."
The threat wrapped in gentleness makes my resistance crumble. Or maybe it's the exhaustion, the hunger, the image of Tommy that I can't shake. Either way, my lips part.
The first bite is heaven. Warm, soft, with just a hint of rosemary. He feeds me slowly, patiently, small bites that won't overwhelm my empty stomach. His free hand rests on my knee, thumb stroking absently through the silk of my skirt as he watches me with an intensity that makes me shiver.
"Good girl," he murmurs when I finish the bread, and heat tingles in my core at the praise. I hate myself for the reaction.
Next comes the soup, bone cold but still delicious. He holds the spoon steady, never shaking despite the intimate position. I feel humiliated, being fed like a child, but there's something else in his eyes. Not mockery or condescension, but something almost like… fascination.
"Why?" I ask between bites.
"Why what?"
"Why be gentle? You could force me."
His hand tightens on my knee, and my pulse quickens.
"Where's the fun in that? I much prefer watching you struggle between wanting to defy me and wanting to thank me.
Your face is deliciously expressive when you're conflicted.
" He offers another spoonful. "Besides, you're my wife.
Taking care of you is my responsibility now. "
The word 'responsibility' sounds like a promise and a threat combined from his lips. He continues feeding me: small portions of everything, watching carefully for signs of distress. When my stomach starts to rebel against too much too fast, he stops immediately.
"Better?"
I nod, unable to trust my voice. My body feels warm and loose, the shakiness replaced by something else entirely.
The way he cares for me with such control, such deliberate gentleness, makes heat spread through my limbs.
This strange mixture of tenderness and dominance makes my head spin more than hunger ever did.
He reaches up, brushing a strand of hair from my face. The gesture is possessive and tender at once, a combination that makes my pussy ache. I know he can see my body's response: the flush spreading across my chest, the way my breathing has changed, because his eyes darken, tracking every tell.
"You're exhausted," he says, though his voice has gone rough. "Come. Time for bed."
The bedroom feels smaller in the darkness, like it's shrinking until I can feel his presence with every breath.
I lie rigid beside him, acutely aware of every sound, every shift of the mattress.
Alessandro doesn't touch me, but I can feel the heat radiating from his body mere inches away, the space between us charged with electricity.
He's given me one of his shirts to sleep in, apparently my closet doesn't include nightwear yet, and the fabric carries his scent, that dusky floral cologne mixing with something uniquely him.
"You're not breathing," he observes, voice quiet in the darkness.
I force myself to inhale, but it comes out shaky. "This is… I can't…"
"You can. You will." His voice wraps around me like silk restraints. "Relax, Frances. I'm not going to touch you tonight."
That name again. Each time he says it, I wait for the accusation, for him to demand who I really am. Emma. My name is Emma, and I'm nobody, a servant who scrubbed floors until yesterday.
"Then why?"
"Because you're mine." Simple. Final. "And what's mine stays close."
I want to argue, to rage against the possession in his voice, but my body betrays me completely now. The absolute certainty in his tone makes my pussy wet, unwanted and undeniable. When he speaks, my body responds like he's already touching me, even though he maintains that careful distance.
"Tell me," he says after a long moment, "what did you think of your first day as a Rosetti?"
"I think…" I swallow hard. "I think you've built a very beautiful cage."
His laugh is soft and dangerous. "Every marriage is a cage, cara mia. The only question is whether you learn to sing in it or beat yourself bloody against the bars."
The mattress shifts as he turns toward me. I can't see his face in the dark, but I feel his attention like hands ghosting over my skin.
His voice drops lower. "I won't hurt you, Frances. Not unless you make me."
For Tommy, I think desperately. I'm doing this for Tommy. But even that reminder can't stop the way my body responds to the dark promise in his voice.
"Go to sleep," he murmurs, and despite everything, his voice has a hypnotic quality that makes my eyelids heavy.
But even as exhaustion pulls me under, I'm hyperaware of how my body recognizes his breathing, responds to his presence with heat I can't control. In the morning, I'll rebuild my walls, find new ways to resist.
Lying rigid beside him in the dark, I realize the most terrifying truth of all:
When he shifts slightly closer, not touching but close enough that I feel his heat, my traitorous body moves toward him.
Just an inch. Maybe less. But we both feel it, the magnetic pull I can't control.
The silk of his shirt against my skin suddenly feels like fire, and I know he can sense every racing heartbeat, every shallow breath.
"There she is," he murmurs, satisfaction coating every word. "My real wife."
The worst part isn't that he's right.
It's that my body pulses with heat at being caught.