Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Valentina
Hill Country, Texas
My new life.
As Mrs. Moretti.
The title clings to my skin the same way the wedding gown still does, heavy with lace and promise and the faint metallic scent of the blood he never bothered to wash from his knuckles.
My brother’s face flashes behind my eyes, unaccounted for since the cathedral, and the not-knowing coils more tightly than any rope they could have used on me.
“Shall we get started?”
“Started?” I blink.
“You’re my wife.” Without hurry, he moves closer, the soft scrape of his dress shoes against stone the only sound besides the distant hum of the air-conditioning.
Even though I want to stand my ground, I back up a step, the hem of the gown whispering around my ankles like a warning I cannot heed.
“You’re my wife,” he repeats quietly, with conviction, as if that explains everything. “And I will claim you in every way.”
Shock leaves me frozen in place. Here? Now?
The reality of our marriage crashes through me in a cold wave. Surely he can wait until tonight. Even the Moretti enforcer has to understand that some things are not rushed like a business transaction.
He brings his bloodied hand up and strokes my cheekbone. Heart thundering, I grab hold of his wrist in a vain attempt to stop him from touching me.
“I don’t think you understand, princess. You’re mine. And I will have you.”
Gently, mesmerizingly, he continues those low, sensual strokes with his finger, the rough pad tracing the line of my jaw as though he has all the time in the world to map what now legally belongs to him.
“We are going to consummate this marriage, Mrs. Moretti. And we’re going to do it now.”
The words settle over me like another layer of silk I cannot shed, and something inside my chest tightens until breathing feels like a calculated risk.
I feel the signed license somewhere in Houston like a chain already locked around my throat, the forced vows still echoing in my ears, the soldiers outside every terrace and door reminding me that I am completely under Moretti control.
My brother’s absence from the ceremony sharpens every edge of my fury until it cuts from the inside out.
I was raised to expect a political marriage someday—cold, strategic, arranged by my father with the same precision he used to balance alliances—but not like this.
Not kidnapped. Not forced down the aisle by a man who spilled blood on our wedding day.
Not to the enemy who slipped a drug into my Sicilian Velvet and turned my world into this.
But if this is the way he wants it…
Angling my chin deliberately, I meet his gaze. “Fine. Let’s get it over with.”
His gaze narrows as I reach back toward the tiny row of satin-covered buttons at my back.
I’m happy to strip off this hated gown and burn it.
I’ll do this on my terms.
The first button slips free beneath my touch.
His finger stills. “Valentina…”
Still determined, I release the second.
“Stop.”
Ignoring him, I reach for the third.
He clamps a hand over mine. “Stop.”
The contact is controlled—firm enough to stop me, not hard enough to bruise—but it still sends a jolt straight down my spine. “What difference does it make?”
He does not speak at first. He simply holds my wrist, thumb resting over the flutter of my pulse.
“Leave it.” His voice is low, close to my ear, the words vibrating through bone. Not a request.
My lungs squeeze tight.
I keep my gaze fixed on him, reminding myself this is the man who forced me to sign a marriage license and who thinks he now owns my body.
“So I’m supposed to stand here and let you unwrap me like a gift you paid for with my brother’s blood?
” The question slips out sharper than I intend, but I do not soften it.
Let him hear the edge. Let him remember exactly whose daughter I am.
He does not answer with words. Not at first.
Instead, he settles his free hand at the small of my back, palm wide and warm through the silk, and he draws the next button free himself. Controlled and precise.
The fabric parts another inch. His knuckles graze my spine, still rough with dried blood, and the tiny rasp of it makes my breath hitch audibly. “A gift?” He kisses the shell of my ear. “Yes.”
The terrible simplicity of his husky response leaves me breathless.
“I want you willing.”
I glare. “Not happening, Moretti.”
Annoying the hell out of me, he chuckles.
“Oh yes. It is.”
As much as possible, I pull away. But he still has me completely imprisoned.
“You’ll ask me to take you.” He kisses me again.
“Screw you.”
“That’s it.” His voice drops even lower. “Instead of asking, I’ll make you beg.”
Not ever. I hate this man. Despise him. I’ll tolerate his touch if I must. For my family. But there won’t be anything willing about it. “Never.”
“Shall we see?”
“Just go ahead fuck me, Moretti.” I wave a hand dismissively. “That’s what you want. So spare me the meaningless words.”
His eyes darken. “You think you’re in charge, princess?”
Mouth set in a grim line, he scoops me from the floor.
One shoe slides off as the floor drops away, and my stomach flips.
Silk bunches between us as he holds me against his chest like I weigh nothing.
Desperate for stability, I grab hold of his shoulders, curling my fingers into his suit coat. I hate how solid he feels. I hate that my body registers safety in the very arms that dragged me here. “Put me down.”
Ignoring me, he starts up the wide staircase.
All his soldiers avert their eyes. Nothing to see here.
Each of Moretti’s steps vibrates through me, the slow, measured rhythm of his stride pressing my hip against the hard plane of his abdomen.
My pulse hammers louder than the distant hum of the air-conditioning.
Every breath I take pulls in the scent of him—citrus, gun oil, and the dark, expensive cologne that clings to his skin like a second vow.
The landing opens into a long hallway lined with tall windows.
Early-afternoon light spills across pale limestone floors and out over the infinity pool below, the water a shimmering sheet that seems to pour straight into the vineyards beyond.
For a treacherous second, I stare at that view, at the blue sky meeting green hills, at freedom I can see but cannot reach. My throat tightens. If I could run, I would. If I could scream, I would. But his arms are iron bands, and the house is full of men and women who answer only to him.
Maybe sensing my tension, he adjusts his grip, drawing me fractionally closer, and the motion sends a fresh wave of silk whispering against my thighs. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste copper. I will not let the arrogant asshole feel me tremble. I will not give him that.
At the end of the corridor, he shoulders open double doors into the primary suite. The room is vast, all cool stone and pale wood, dominated by a bed that could swallow entire families.
A wall of glass faces the same endless view of pool and hills and sky. My stomach knots tighter. Anyone out there with binoculars, anyone on the lower terraces, anyone with a scope could watch us right now. The thought burns like acid.
He crosses the room in three long strides and sets me on my feet beside the bed. The gown’s hem pools around my ankles as I kick off my remaining shoe.
Before I can step back, he turns, walks to the windows, and drags the heavy linen drapes closed with one decisive motion. The room plunges into soft shadow. Only the bedside lamps remain, their glow intimate, private, merciless.
“No one sees what belongs to me.” His voice is low and final.
I lift my chin. “I’m not yours.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, tracing the rapid rise and fall of my breasts beneath the bodice. “So you say.”
After closing and locking the bedroom doors, he returns to me slowly, each step measured, giving me time to feel the air thicken between us.
The backs of my legs meet the edge of the mattress before I realize I’ve retreated.
My husband doesn’t crowd me.
Instead, he captures my shoulders and turns me so that my back is to him.
I squeeze my eyes shut, hating every moment, despising his touch.
Slowly he begins working the tiny satin buttons free, one by one.
He’s steady and patient, the rough pads grazing my spine each time the fabric parts another inch. Cool air kisses newly exposed skin.
Despite myself, I suck in a tiny, desperate breath.
The bodice loosens.
His breath warm on my shoulders, he begins to draw it down.
Even though I’m still wearing a strapless bra, I frantically fold my arms across my chest, holding onto my modesty as long as I can.
“Nothing will stop me from seeing every beautiful inch of my wife’s body.”
I scoff. “Like you did the night you kidnapped me?”
Why the hell do I need to goad him like this? I’d do better to remember the advice I’ve given others. Speak only when necessary.
To his credit, he doesn’t react.
Instead, he brushes the delicate lace at my hips with his thumbs, reading every tremor I cannot hide.
“Look at me, Valentina.”
He turns me again so that I’m facing him.
“I told you to look at me.”
Refusing, I focus on the open collar of his shirt, on the strong column of his throat, anywhere but his face.
His knuckles—still smeared—brush my jaw, tilting my chin up anyway. “You will not hide from this.” The touch is not gentle, but it is certain. “From me.”
Despite every instinct that’s screaming at me, I meet his gaze.
His eyes are dark, steady, reading every microreaction I cannot control. I hope he sees the fury. The fear I have for my brother. The way I hate this.
But I know he’s watching the way I react to him.
With a small smile, he waits, cataloguing every response.
When he’s ready, he uncrosses my arms and lowers them.
Suddenly chilled, with goose bumps racing up my arms, I pull my shoulders back.
Even though I want to run, I will not cower.
And I will do my duty.
He slides his palms up my ribcage, making me remember the humiliating way I reacted at the bridal shop when he slid a hand inside my bodice to toy with my nipple.
No matter how I feel about this man, my body reacts to him.
His touch deliberate, he strokes the undersides of my breasts through the thin lace of my lingerie.
My nipples tighten instantly, becoming traitorous little peaks that press against fabric that feels too tight, too revealing.
Heat gathers low in my belly, slick and insistent, and the knowledge infuriates me more than anything else. How dare my body remember the night he bought me a drink and made the world tilt? How dare it betray me now?
With one hand, he reaches back to unhook the bra.
Cool air whispers over my bare skin, and my nipples draw even tighter.
I remain where I am, proud and defiant.
“Oh, Valentina…” He lowers his mouth but not to kiss me. To taste.
His tongue circles one aching peak, slow and deliberate. Then he draws it deep.
Pleasure spears straight through me, and my knees buckle. His arm bands around my waist, holding me upright while his mouth continues its ruthless exploration—sucking, licking, scraping teeth lightly enough to make me gasp, hard enough to make me arch.
Every pull of his lips sends another pulse of wet heat between my thighs. I bite my lip until it stings. I won’t give him the satisfaction of hearing me moan.
He switches to the other breast, giving it the same thorough attention.
Deliberately I fist my hands at my sides and squeeze my eyes shut, promising myself I will not touch him, won’t thread my fingers into his hair and pull him closer.
Not ever.
But the man is a master of my body.
Betraying me, my hips rock forward of their own accord, seeking friction.
“That’s it, wife. You’ll give yourself to me.”
Never.
Within seconds, he has my gown on the floor, around my ankles.
Then he kneels to hook his fingers into the lace edge of my panties.
With a single smooth tug, they slide down my legs. He helps me to step out of all the material. And since the alternative is falling, I reluctantly accept the assistance.
Now I am completely naked while he remains fully dressed. The imbalance burns.
“God. Damn. You’re fucking delectable.”
Standing, he guides me backward until the mattress presses against the backs of my thighs again. I sit because his hands urge me to. I lie back because the pressure of his palm on my sternum leaves no room for refusal.
“Are you ready for me?”