Chapter 8 The Morning After
POV: Sienna
The heavy platinum crest of the Luvaris syndicate scratched against the slate-grey silk sheets, the sound abrasive and violently out of place in the suffocating quiet of the bedroom.
I hadn't slept. I had spent the last seven hours sitting perfectly rigid in the center of the massive, king-sized bed, staring at the reinforced biometric lock on the heavy oak door.
It hadn't opened. Roman hadn't come in. He had simply locked me in this hyper-modern, freezing guest suite and left me to drown in the reality of what I had done.
Morning had arrived, though it was difficult to tell. The polarized smart-glass windows remained heavily tinted, rendering the Vesperine District skyline into a bruised, muted painting of charcoal and dull neon.
I finally pushed myself off the mattress.
My muscles screamed in protest, tight with the residual adrenaline of yesterday’s assassination attempt and the midnight wedding.
I was still wearing the tactical cargo pants and thick sweater I had tried to escape in.
I smelled like stagnant tunnel water, gunsmoke, and fear.
I needed to shower. I needed armor. Most importantly, I needed to establish that I was not a prisoner cowering in a cell. I was the heir to the Moretti empire, and if this was to be my new battleground, I was going to claim my space.
I marched toward the frosted glass doors of the en-suite wardrobe, yanking them open with far more force than necessary. I expected empty shelves. I expected to be forced to ask my new husband for a change of clothes, a humiliating first step into subjugation.
Instead, my breath caught painfully in my throat.
The sprawling walk-in closet was entirely full.
Dozens of pristine, tailored garments hung in meticulous, color-coordinated rows.
Cashmere sweaters, silk blouses, sharp blazers, and dark trousers.
I reached out with a trembling hand, checking the tag on a slate-grey skirt.
It was my exact size. I checked a pair of leather boots resting on the illuminated bottom shelf. My exact size.
A cold, nauseating dread pooled in my stomach. Roman hadn't ordered these overnight. This level of curation took weeks, perhaps months. He had built this cage with meticulous, obsessive precision long before Jorath Nethra ever made a move against me.
Swallowing down the bile rising in my throat, I stripped off my damp clothes and stepped into the scalding spray of the rainfall shower. I dressed in a pair of tailored black trousers and a cream silk blouse—an outfit that felt entirely like a costume—and marched toward the bedroom door.
I braced myself, fully expecting it to be locked, but the heavy oak swung open effortlessly under my hand.
I stepped out into the cavernous, open-concept living space of the penthouse. The sheer scale of it was dizzying. Black marble floors stretched out to meet the tinted, floor-to-ceiling windows. The silence was absolute, broken only by the low, expensive hum of the climate control grid.
And the rich, dark scent of freshly brewed espresso.
I found Roman in the sprawling, monolithic kitchen.
The sight of him was jarringly domestic and utterly terrifying.
He stood by the sprawling obsidian island, scrolling through a holographic data-pad.
He had discarded the jacket from the night before, wearing a perfectly fitted charcoal vest over a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose thick, corded forearms lightly dusted with dark hair.
He didn't look up as my heels clicked sharply against the marble.
"I want the windows un-tinted," I demanded, projecting a lethal confidence I absolutely did not feel.
I marched straight toward the massive, gleaming chrome espresso machine bolted into the wall behind him.
"And I want the security codes to this floor.
If I am forced to live here, I will not be treated like a hostage. "
Roman slowly turned a page on his data-pad. "Good morning to you as well, wife."
The casual, mocking way the word wife rolled off his tongue sent a violent spike of rage through my chest. I ignored him, reaching for a porcelain mug and placing it beneath the espresso spout.
I jabbed the illuminated touchscreen, fully intending to pour my own coffee, to perform a single, autonomous action in this sterile prison.
A red light flashed on the screen. A sharp, digitized error tone chimed. Biometric lock engaged. Access denied.
I stared at the screen, my jaw clenching. I tapped it again. Access denied.
"You locked the coffee machine?" I snapped, spinning around to face him.
Roman finally looked up. His midnight eyes were calm, analyzing me with the detached amusement of a scientist observing a rat in a maze. He set the data-pad down on the marble counter, the soft clack echoing in the quiet room.
"The penthouse operates on a closed-loop biometric matrix," Roman said smoothly, his deep voice wrapping around the chilled air. "It recognizes one pulse. One voice. One master. It does not obey you, Sienna. Because you do not own it."
"Then grant me access," I challenged, crossing my arms over my chest, refusing to break eye contact. "Unless you plan on pouring my drinks and opening my doors for the rest of my life."
Roman didn't raise his voice. He simply held my gaze and spoke clearly into the empty air. "Luvaris, opacity zero. Prime espresso, single shot."
The penthouse instantly obeyed. Behind me, the polarized tint on the massive windows vanished, flooding the room with the harsh, blinding grey light of the stormy morning. Simultaneously, the chrome machine hummed to life, pouring a perfect, steaming shot of dark espresso into my mug.
He didn't move a muscle, but he had entirely shifted the environment around me. The display of absolute control was staggering.
Roman took a slow step around the island, cutting off my exit.
My heart hammered against my ribs, but I held my ground.
He stopped mere inches from me, his towering frame eclipsing the morning light.
He reached past my shoulder, his chest brushing agonizingly close to mine, and picked up the porcelain mug.
He didn't hand it to me. He brought it to his own lips, taking a slow sip, his eyes never leaving mine.
"I plan on doing exactly what I promised the Magistrate last night," Roman murmured, lowering the cup.
The scent of bergamot and bitter coffee enveloped me.
"I plan on standing between you and the dark.
I will dictate what you eat, where you sleep, and who breathes your air.
You wanted a routine, Sienna? This is it.
You ask, and if I deem it safe, I provide. "
"I am not a pet," I whispered vehemently, my hands balling into fists at my sides to hide their shaking.
Roman tilted his head, his gaze dropping to the platinum crest resting heavy on my left hand. He reached out, his leather-clad thumb lightly tracing the cold metal of the ring, the intimate touch sending a confusing, electric jolt straight to my core.
"No," Roman agreed softly, a dark, possessive shadow crossing his perfectly sculptured features. "You are my wife. And in this house, my word is the only law that exists. Drink your coffee, Sienna. It's going to be a very long day."
He pressed the warm porcelain mug into my trembling hands, completely unbothered by my defiance, leaving me profoundly aware that I hadn't even begun to understand the depth of the cage I had walked into.