Chapter 8 Leonardo
Leonardo
Eleanor kept her mask on for the whole family, but there’s no audience now.
Just me and her, the new bride and her new cage.
I stay a few paces behind, liking the way the echo of her heels turns more frantic.
I bet she can’t wait to slam a door in my face.
Bet she wishes I’d fall into line like everyone else does when she pulls her queen act. But I’m not anyone else.
The front hall opens up before us, cold and boring.
I’ve always preferred small, cozy spaces, but the Rosetti name requires monstrous architecture, apparently.
She tries to own the space with her clipped, precise strides.
Good. Let her think she’s got the upper hand for a minute.
Let her get a good taste of what she signed up for.
The dress fits her too perfectly. Lace and silk, delicate and deadly, a trap in white that hugs her body with an indecent precision.
It makes her look innocent and dangerous, a fallen angel with a wicked smile and murder in her eyes.
She wants to taunt me with it, and it's working.
The thin straps leave her shoulders bare, the neckline plunges, her skin glows against the expensive fabric.
I can't take my eyes off her, and she knows it.
A stab of desire runs through me, primal and raw, demanding that I take what’s mine.
I want to tear the thing off her. I want to grab her and rip the damn dress in two.
I’m not even sure if it’s because of how beautiful she looks in it or if it’s because deep down she believes I never will.
That I never could. Like I’ll be the one who comes down in this war of ours.
I bet she thinks I’ll cave first. Her mouth says nothing, but the tight, confident sway of her hips says it all—I'm untouchable.
But I’ve never been one to give up or give in, and especially not to someone this infuriating and gorgeous. She can keep trying to push me away, but she’s made a deal with the devil. I’ll show her it’s the last one she’ll ever make.
Her hair is pinned up severely, a few dark brown strands curling against her neck and ears.
She’s wearing the pearls, the spiked cream heels, the perfect pale lipstick.
It’s all part of the arsenal, her armor and her weapon.
But I know better than to underestimate her.
She might look like she’s stepping out of some wedding magazine, but there’s venom under all that gloss.
I’m supposed to be the dangerous one, the one with bloody hands and a reputation to match, but the truth is, I’ve never met a match quite like her.
It’s what makes this cat-and-mouse game so fucking thrilling.
I thought this arranged marriage would be a hassle, a chore, but Eleanor Price is anything but.
She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t crack. She’s as stubborn as I am, and it pisses me off. She thinks I’m not a threat.
I can show her how wrong she is.
The closer we get to the bedroom, the more I want to ruin her.
I want to mark her up so everyone knows she belongs to me.
I want to do it because she’ll hate it, because right now she thinks she’s got all the power.
It’s not just lust; it’s that drive to possess, to conquer, to have her need me more than she despises me.
Her father thought she’d be an easy payment. He’s a fool. I’ll keep her and own her and win, no matter how long it takes. She’ll come around, or she'll go down swinging. I almost don’t care which.
I catch up to her just as she reaches the end of the hall. “You always this quiet?” I ask.
She keeps moving, like I’m not worth answering. I see the curve of her shoulder, her bare neck, a few loose strands of dark brown hair against white skin that escaped from her uptight up-do.
Eleanor in my world. That’s what this is.
And this world? It doesn’t have enough exits for her.
I’d laugh if it didn’t make me want to break something.
Break her. She’s not half as calm as she pretends to be, not with the way her dress clings to her legs and the way I can tell she’s gritting her teeth every time my footsteps get closer.
I can feel the tension on my skin. It’s hot, electric. It makes me hungry, the idea that she’s as much of a mess inside as I am.
We reach the bedroom door, and I’m the one to open it. “Ladies first,” I say. She gives me a look, but it’s fast, just a flick of those glacial eyes. I want to catch it, hold it in place. Maybe even hold her in place.
“Get comfortable,” I tell her, gesturing inside. “This is home now.”
“Comfortable,” she repeats. “You really are delusional.”
I lean in the doorway, blocking it off. Blocking her off. The room behind her is big, just like the rest of the house, but there’s only one bed. Only one man she’s going to share it with.
“You’re not making much effort to play the part, Eleanor,” I say. “We are married, after all.”
“Are we?” She tilts her head, lips pulling into a smile that makes me want to rip the whole place apart. “Or is this just a new kind of prison?”
I crack my knuckles, watching her like the puzzle she is. “I thought you were smart,” I say. “Smart enough to know this is all on you.”
“On me,” she echoes. “My father seems to think it’s your family that owes him. Or do you enjoy being his dog?”
She wants a reaction. Wants me to bite. But instead, I give her a grin, something vicious and hungry. It’s enough to wipe the smirk off her lips. “We’ll see who owns who."
I push off the doorframe and pull her close, grabbing her waist with one hand. I can feel her sharp intake of breath. The way her body tenses. The heat through her silk wedding dress. My mouth is so close to her ear, I know she can hear the hitch in my breathing too.
I half-expect her to push me away, but she doesn’t. Maybe because I’m holding on so tight, or maybe because she’s scared to let go of that facade she’s wearing. Her arms are pinned between us, and a jolt of satisfaction strikes me when I realize her pulse is racing under her skin.
“Three rules,” I tell her, my voice low and raw. “You break them, and it’s not going to be pretty.”
Her spine is rigid, her chin high. But I see the flicker of something behind those blue eyes.
“Let me guess,” she says. “Rules from your father?”
“From me.” My grip on her waist tightens. I want her to know who she belongs to. I want her to feel it in every cell of her body. “Rule one: no lying." Her eyes narrow, but I don't let her interrupt. "Rule two: no running.”
She meets my gaze head-on, like a deer staring down headlights. “And rule three?” Her voice is pure ice, but I see the first crack, hear it in the way she swallows hard, unsure what’s coming next.
“Rule three: No touching any other man.” The words come out fierce, possessive. “You belong to me now.”
She lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh. But I hear fear in it too. She’s not as untouchable as she thinks.
“That’s cute,” she says. “You think I’m some trinket you can keep on a leash.”
“Call it whatever you want,” I say. “But if I catch you breaking the rules, the consequences will be severe.”
The flash of defiance in her eyes makes me want to throw her down on the bed, claim her, break her until she’s wearing my mark all over.
“And if I obey?” she says, twisting the words, making them sound dirty. Making me imagine what it’ll be like when she’s really mine, in body and soul.
I pull back a little, just enough to look her straight in the eye. “Then maybe we’ll both get what we want.”
She huffs a short laugh, like she thinks I’m bluffing. It pisses me off, the way she acts like this is all some big joke. Like I’m a big joke.
I pin her to the wall, hard and fast, and she gasps, real panic flashing in her eyes this time. The way she struggles makes my head spin, like blood rushing all at once to all the wrong places.
“Tell me you understand,” I say. My hand is rough on her chin, forcing her to look at me. My other hand slips down her shoulder, her arm, not gentle, but not so rough it’ll leave a bruise. She feels like silk and stone, like everything I’ve wanted since I laid eyes on her.
Her breath is shallow, but I see her trying to control it, trying to act like it’s all fine. “You really think you’re scary?” she says, a quiver in her voice betraying her.
I lean in closer, the scent of her, the heat of her almost more than I can take. “You have no idea,” I tell her. “Yet.”
She sets her jaw again, defiance carved into every line of her face. But her silence betrays her. She’s too scared to even answer.
“You better say it,” I say. “Or this will get messy. Tell me you understand the rules.”
It takes her a second, one where I can feel her debating how much pain she can endure, how much fight she has in her. But then she blinks, and I can see her slipping that mask back on.
“I understand the rules,” she says, her voice careful and flat, like a business transaction.
I pull back a fraction, letting her see the way I smirk, pretending like I don’t care that she’s trying to be in control. Her tight hairdo is disheveled, escaped locks falling in messy waves over her face. Her breath is ragged. She’s never looked more beautiful.
I take my time letting go, watching as she smooths down her dress, puts that cool mask back on piece by piece. Her breathing steadies, her eyes cut back to mine, more measured now.
“You’re a real piece of work, Leonardo,” she says, pretending she isn't trembling.
I laugh, something quick and rough. “Get used to it.” I lean against the wall, my heart pounding and the feel of her lingering in my blood. Her defiance makes my whole body buzz, makes me crazy.
It’s going to be hell to make her see that I own her, but it’s going to be worth it.
More than worth it.
She’ll break. She’ll break, and then I’ll put her back together exactly the way I want.