4. Arabella
Chapter 4
Arabella
S ince I’m unable to undo all the hooks and eyes that run down the back of my wedding gown, I sit on the side of the bed, nibbling nervously on my thumbnail as I stare at the small vial of blood beside me.
Whose blood is it? His, or someone else’s? One of his victims, maybe. The thought turns my stomach.
My eyes flicker from the bed to the bathroom door when I hear the water in the shower turn off.
A few minutes later, when the door opens, my heart rate kicks up a notch. Dante is standing there, shrouded by a cloud of steam and wrapped in a white towel that hangs low on his hips.
He looks like a sculptured god. I know I should turn away, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes from him. His body is ripped, with a chiselled torso. Every muscle is defined and taut. But what surprises me most are the tattoos. His arms are covered in vibrant, colourful ink. Full sleeves that were concealed beneath his clothes. A few more mark his chest, each telling a story I’m not privy to and probably never will be.
When he clears his throat, my gaze snaps up to his, only to find him watching me watch him. Embarrassment floods me, and I quickly turn my face away, feeling my cheeks heat again.
“Do like what you see, Bellezza ?” he asks over a chuckle.
That cocky attitude of his gets under my skin. “No,” I bite, which is a complete lie.
I’ve never seen a man naked—or half-naked in this case—before. My father has kept Lucia and me sheltered all these years, locked away from the rest of the world. We were homeschooled, and neither of us was allowed a phone or computer. We didn’t have friends … we only had each other.
That thought makes my heart heavy. When I go, she’s going to be all alone.
He moves past me through my peripheral vision, but I don’t dare look. But when he stops in front of the dresser, my traitorous eyes flicker in his direction, just in time to see him drop his towel.
My eyes widen, and thankfully, I manage to swallow my gasp as I take in his bare, round, hard backside. For some reason, the sight gives me a tingling feeling down below. A strange sensation … something I haven’t experienced before. It’s like a pulsing need, but I push that feeling aside in disgust. I don’t want or need this man.
He grabs a pair of white boxer briefs from the drawer and bends slightly to place each foot through the holes. When I unintentionally get a glance at the long, thick thing that hangs heavy between his legs, I clench my eyes shut. I feel like a voyeur watching him dress.
My eyelids flutter open just in time to see him reach for a can of deodorant, lifting each arm to spray his armpits. The delicious scent lingers in the air once he’s done.
His back muscles ripple with each smooth and controlled movement, and only then do I notice the small, round-shaped marks that dot his skin. Each one is about the size of a button, with slightly raised edges and a faint indentation in the centre. They are red and tender-looking, showing signs of recent healing. A flash of concern runs through me.
“What happened to your back?” I find myself asking.
He briefly glances at me over his shoulder and frowns before bending to scoop up his wet towel from the floor.
“I got shot.” His words are more of a growl, low and rough, and hang between us for a moment.
Without waiting for a response, he moves past me again, his steps steady despite the unspoken weight of his confession, as he disappears back into the bathroom.
When he returns, he has a neatly folded pile of clothes in one hand and the shiny dress shoes he was wearing in the other. His belt is coiled on top, and his cufflinks and gun sit in the centre.
He drops the shoes beside the chair, where his tuxedo jacket and bowtie are already laid out, then carefully places the rest of his clothes on the seat. It surprises me. I’m not used to seeing a man pick up after himself … that’s something my father has never done.
After my mother’s death, Lucia and I became his live-in housekeepers.
My eyes track his every move. This man is such a conundrum. He swipes the vial of blood off the bed next and moves back into the bathroom.
This has me leaping to my feet. Is he going to destroy it out of petty spite?
I stop in the doorway when I see him standing by the basin. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“What does it look like?” he grumbles in reply.
He removes the top from the vial, grabs a glass off the countertop, and empties a small amount of blood inside.
“Whose blood is that?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does if you murdered someone to get it. ”
This has him pinning me with a glare in the mirror. “It’s mine,” he deadpans.
“Ah, okay.”
Ignoring me, he returns to what he’s doing by adding a small amount of water to the blood and stirring it with the tip of his finger.
“Why did you add water?”
He blows out an exasperated breath. “Because virginal blood is usually mixed with other bodily fluids.”
“It sounds like you’re an expert,” I spit as a wave of jealousy I can’t quite explain rises inside me.
His gaze locks with mine again. “What?”
“You’ve obviously deflowered a lot of women in the past.” I’m not sure why I care about this, but for some reason, I do. “Are virgins your specialty?”
“No, I like my women seasoned,” he says matter-of-factly, his tone cool, like he’s stating a preference for wine or weather. “I only know this because I researched it online. If there’s one thing I am, it’s thorough. I don’t go into anything half-cocked. My reputation is on the line here, and your father is no fool. I don’t like to deceive people … not unless I have to.”
“Oh.”
He brushes past me, so I turn in that direction. He pulls back the top sheet and places one knee on the mattress, leaning towards the middle of the bed.
A dark-red stain starts spreading, lightening as the water dilutes it. Leaving it with blurred edges and a mottled, uneven appearance.
When he’s done, Dante stands back with a satisfied, smug grin, admiring his handiwork. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed.
I can’t believe he’s gone to such lengths for me. I just presumed that most men would take their liberties with their wives on their wedding night, whether it was freely offered or not.
I guess I was wrong.
My eyes travel down the length of his body, but when they reach the junction of his thighs … namely, the prominent bulge hiding behind the tight white fabric of his underwear—which leaves nothing to the imagination—I get that same tingling feeling below.
It’s disconcerting, so I do the only thing I can: I divert my gaze.
He returns to the bathroom and rinses the glass, placing it back on the countertop. The empty vial goes into the small front pocket of his suitcase, which sits beside the dresser.
When he returns to the bed, I find myself asking, “What are you doing now?”
“Going to sleep. Don’t worry, I’ll stick to my side of the bed.”
“Could you help me with the hooks and eyes at the back of my dress? I can’t reach them on my own.”
He sighs as he closes the small distance between us. “Turn around,” he grumbles.
I do as he asks, and a wave of goose bumps prickle down my arm when his fingertips graze my shoulder blades while he gathers my long hair and sweeps it aside.
I hold my breath as he goes to work, undoing the hooks on my dress. His warm breath and the heat radiating from his closeness send electric shivers coursing through me, like little livewires sparking beneath my skin.
I don’t like how acutely aware I have become of this man’s presence in the short time we’ve been locked in this room together. He has my emotions in utter turmoil. I feel like I’m trapped in a dangerous web, caught somewhere between hatred and lust.
The moment I’ve been dreading all week has finally arrived. This feels more overwhelming than the concerns I carried yesterday over the wedding night, because that was just one moment.
This feels so much bigger.
I’m about to leave everything I know behind and move to another side of the world with a man I barely know. That’s a whole new level of fear.
The bloodied sheets have yet to be revealed, but that humiliating display awaits us when we get downstairs. Is Dante’s research going to pass the test? I have no idea. It’s just another thing to feel sick about.
My suitcases have already been collected. When Lucia delivered breakfast to our room earlier, one of my father’s men came up with her to gather my belongings.
I got the impression it was Papa’s way of reminding me that this sham marriage was going ahead, whether I liked it or not. I may be an adult now, but I’ve never had control over my own life. I’ve spent it catering to my father’s every need and all his ridiculous demands.
If there’s one silver lining in all this, I won’t have to live under his iron thumb anymore. I only wish I could say the same for my little sister. I worry she’ll meet the same fate as poor Mamma without me to defuse things when she pushes him too far.
I’m already dressed and ready; I hardly slept last night. I’m currently sitting on the side of the bed, knotting my hands in my lap. Dante is beside me, packing the rest of his belongings into his suitcase.
He hasn’t said a single word to me this morning. The silence hangs heavy, and everything feels tense and awkward. I can’t help but wonder if this is a glimpse into my life from here on out. If it is, it’s going to be a miserable, lonely existence.
I side-eye him when he zips up his suitcase and places it on the floor beside my feet. “Stand up,” he orders, and I’m so knotted up on the inside that I don’t even argue … I simply do as he asks.
He seems extra grumbly this morning, but I can’t blame him. I can tell he’d rather not be married to me, either. It makes me wonder what my father offered in return for my hand. I doubt it was anything legal.
Leaning forward, he roughly tugs the top sheet off the bed and tosses it on the floor. The bloodied fitted sheet is next, which gets bundled into a tight ball and shoved under his arm. He reaches for the handle of his suitcase, manoeuvring it to the same side as the sheet. I’m surprised when his spare hand reaches for me. He laces his strong, warm fingers through mine, and the comfort it brings anchors me, grounding me in the moment.
“You ready?” he asks.
I want to cry, scream, and beg him not to take me away from my sister, not to condemn me to a life I’ll hate, but I know it would fall on deaf ears. My father would never allow it.
I lift my chin, summoning whatever bravado I can muster, and with a resigned sigh, I grip his hand tighter and force the words out. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
Papa and his men, as well as a few of my elderly family members who stayed at the estate last night, gather in the foyer like a pack of ravenous piranhas. The fact that witnessing sheets stained with a woman’s virginal blood could be the highlight of their morning is both depraved and beyond barbaric.
The sight fills me with loathing and contempt for each and every one of them .
I scan the crowd, searching for my little sister, but she’s nowhere to be found. Will I even be allowed to say goodbye to her? Who knows when I’ll see her again?
We’ve had almost a week to prepare for this, so all the important words have been said. I even managed to hug her briefly this morning when she brought up our breakfast, assuring her I was okay. But it wasn’t nearly enough.
When we descend the final step, Dante places down his suitcase, drops my hand and steps towards my father. The way he shoves the balled-up sheets into his chest tells me he’s just as disgusted by this stupid ritual as I am.
Dante retreats a step as my father begins unravelling the fabric. When he holds it high in the air, cheers erupt from the crowd, and they see exactly what they’ve all been waiting for … a stain of red blood illuminating the stark white sheet.
The poor unsuspecting fools.
Unbeknownst to them, I get the last laugh because it’s not mine, and my virtue remains intact.
My husband reaches for my hand again—clearly unwilling to stick around for this ridiculous spectacle—and without a word, he leads me towards the front door.
The moment I step outside, I take a deep breath, feeling a wave of relief wash over me. We actually pulled it off. The weight of what he’s done is not lost on me. I pause, turning to face him. “Thank you,” I say with gratitude lining my voice.
Dante’s expression remains neutral and impossible to read. He responds with a shrug. “You’re welcome, I guess.”