Chapter 11 Ruby
RUBY
My stuff looks out of place in his bedroom, which is super plain compared to my colourful clutter. And his bed is huge.
We’ve had a stilted dinner, both aware of how odd this situation is.
Afterwards, he showed me the safe room in his office that was installed after the attack.
It’s a small space, with computers and a couple of chairs.
Sparse. He impressed on me that if there was any threat or I felt scared, I should go in there, lock the door behind me, and not come out until he personally opened it.
It was all a bit overwhelming, to be honest. And now it’s evening, and since we’re pretending to be genuinely married, I’m sharing a bedroom—and a bed—with a man for the first time in my life.
I get into my pyjamas, picking my cutest ones—little sleep shorts with a vest top that has a swirly pattern—then slide under the covers.
The lights are on and he’s left the door to the bathroom ajar.
I hear Dante brush his teeth with an electric toothbrush, and there’s a hush as he flosses.
I pretend to scroll my phone, but actually, I listen like an obsessive weirdo to every move Dante makes.
It’s so strange doing bedtime routines with someone else.
I’m propped on the pillows, and that’s why I look up when he leaves the bathroom. Nothing to do with being obsessed with his body.
And I’m amply rewarded for my voyeuristic tendencies.
He’s naked to the waist, with only a towel wrapped around his hips.
His black hair is wet and sticking up at all sorts of angles.
But his chest. Oh god help me, his chest. I wondered how far the tattoos went, and the answer is far.
He’s covered in lines that curve over his muscles.
And he has chest hair too. Between his defined pectorals, then another sprinkling from his belly button downwards, disappearing under the fluffy, forest-green towel.
“Everything okay?” he asks with a touch of amusement, and turns away from me.
And drops. The. Towel.
I die. I splutter. My brain goes to mush.
I make a noise that could be “Uh,” or “Ah,” or “Mm”.
Because before me is Dante, my husband, completely naked. His butt cheeks are a work of art. I’ve seen hot men on television, but honestly, seeing him in real life is next level. His arse should be put in a museum. He’s absolutely delicious. To the point that my mouth waters.
He’s biteable.
“Ruby?” he checks, and slides a pair of loose shorts on.
“What about sex?” I ask abruptly, and he freezes, like I’ve made some huge mistake saying the word. “Marriages involve sex, don’t they?”
He looks around and his green eyes blaze with an emotion I can’t name… But I suspect it’s annoyance.
“Usually,” he says with deliberate calm.
“It’s just that I’m a virgin.” The words are a whip crack in the air and I wince. I shouldn’t have said that.
He approaches the bed slowly. “It’s okay. I’m not going to touch you.”
Oh. That’s so disappointing.
“Right,” I croak.
He pulls the covers back on his side, and the mattress dips slightly as he gets into bed. The scent of his woodsy shower gel fills my nose, and that’s nice too. It’s a detail about living as a couple that I’d never even thought of.
He regards me for a second, and if he weren’t a terrifying tattooed mafia boss I’d say he was uncertain.
Then he leans across and holds my jaw lightly as he kisses me. A soft, warm, dry brush of his lips over mine.
“Good night, tesorina,” he says, and withdraws. He called me that at the wedding, and I still don’t know what it means. I consider asking, but it doesn’t seem like the right moment. I’ve already caused enough discomfort between us with my unexpected statements today.
The light switch clicks, and we’re plunged into darkness.
After a few minutes of anxiety there’s something companionable about sharing a bed that I hadn’t expected.
The sound of his breathing, slow and deep, and the warmth of his big body heating the bed even though we’re scrupulously not touching, is comforting.
This huge, powerful man is my husband, and he’s next to me.
I think back over the events that led to this. Seeing the marriage certificate, telling Dante, him moving me into his house as his real fake wife.
A mistake.
He shifts slightly, and despite everything, I have to curl my fingers into a fist to prevent myself from reaching over to touch him. It’s silly, but I really, really like the man asleep next to me.
My husband. Until the annulment.
Lead fills my stomach as I think of returning to my shared house. Leaving Dante, probably not seeing him again.
I mean, he’s a billionaire mafia boss, and I’m a trainee hairdresser who’s wondering if she’s in the right low-paid job. It’s not like we’ll bump into each other in the fruit aisle of the supermarket.
If only things were different. If he’d wanted to kiss me. If I were a bit older, prettier, more experienced, and had attracted him at the wedding. Maybe one day we’d be married for real.
He deserves an excellent wife.
I breathe through the jealousy that seeps from me at the thought of Dante marrying again, properly this time.
But… Right now, I’m his wife.
What if… I can barely hold the idea, it’s so audacious.
If I were a really, really good wife, maybe Dante wouldn’t want to annul our marriage? Even if he doesn’t love or desire me—he has just declined sex and he stopped our kiss, after all—perhaps I could be good enough in other ways for him.
My mind spins. I have no idea what being a good wife involves, but I can learn. I am very motivated to learn if it means I can stay with Dante.
I listen carefully, and I’m not sure what sleep sounds like, but maybe this?
Slowly, I take my phone from the bedside table where it’s on charge. I try to be as quiet as possible, and I angle the screen away from Dante. I don’t want to wake him. That definitely doesn’t seem like good wife conduct.
I open a browser, and tap in the question.
What does a good wife do for her husband?
And then I read. The Al summary is vague, but there are plenty of webpages and I begin to scan through.
Take an interest in his hobbies. Hmm. Support him in his work. Could be tricky, given it’s mafia business. Provide a pleasant home environment. I can do that! I go to the next list. I think I should make some notes—
“Ruby.”
I freeze.
“What are you doing?” Dante asks in a serious, warning tone.
Trying to figure out how to make you want to keep me?
Googling how to be a good wife?
“Nothing?”
“I can see the light from your phone.”
“I’m just…” There are no words that make sense here. I’ve lost my mind. “Checking something.”
“I don’t like the thought that I’m so boring in bed that my wife scrolls her phone for entertainment,” he replies with a twist of irony.
“No,” I squeak. Shit. “Sorry.” I put my phone down with a clatter, and stare into the darkness, mortified.
First night of being Dante’s wife and I’ve failed already.
Dante sighs. “It’s alright. Go to sleep, tesorina.”
I don’t, though. I stay awake, thinking about all the ways I can be a good wife. If I’m the perfect wife for him, maybe he’ll want to keep me.
Just like your mother wanted you when you tried to be the perfect daughter? asks a snide little voice in my head.
I ignore it. Dante is not my mother. This will be different.