Azra
With the bed sheet wrapped around me, I race into the bathroom, shut the door behind me, and then press my back against the steam-misted wood. I breathe slowly, as if afraid I might once again put my foot in my mouth if I don’t consider each prompt of my lusty head before implementing it.
My heart, and the damp crevice several inches lower, are still erratically pounding. Not all the buzz is compliments to the dream I’m not entirely sure was solely a dream. Some of it might have been real.
Matteo’s comment about making Giovanni suffer with him lines up too neatly with the fragments I remember. The heat, his closeness, and the way my name sounded in his voice when he demanded I look into his eyes so he could watch me unravel felt real. Too real.
Confident that a healthy stream of water will help unlock some of my confusion, I head for the shower.
The bathroom is massive, with a Jacuzzi tub, a bidet, and a shower that could fit five people.
After turning on the faucet, I slip out of my bra and panties.
I step under the spray face-first, trying to wash away the confusion.
Some of my memories fade into the background, but the hazy ones of me masturbating under Matteo’s watchful gaze refuse to dissolve.
I blush while tracing the outline of my lips with my fingers.
My mouth feels bruised from a senseless kiss, and my chin feels scuffed from a rough brushing.
They could be the effects of the kiss we shared in the walk-in closet, but it feels more recent. Like it was mere hours ago.
No longer interested in letting my memories fade, especially the one where Matteo hinted he wanted to keep me for eternity, I scrub a loaded loofah over my skin, rinse off the bubbles, switch off the faucet, then clamber out of the shower.
As I wrap myself in a towel, I scan the bathroom floor for the items I arrived with. A maid collects our clothes each morning to launder, so I have to ensure I hide my soiled underwear at the very bottom of the laundry hamper if I ever want to show my unblemished face again.
The only way to keep secrets is to keep them well hidden.
My bra and the sheet I used for coverage are where I left them, but my panties are nowhere to be found.
“I’m sure I took them off right there,” I murmur to myself, thrusting my hand at the sheet.
Assuming they’re tangled in the king-size sheet, I bob down to whip it off the floor.
Before I can search it, Matteo’s deep timbre comes through the bathroom door. “Are you nearly ready, micina? Brunch ends in an hour, and I’m extra hungry this morning.”
I recall him saying similar words when he ate me for dinner, and a delicious shiver runs through me.
“Coming.”
I curse myself to hell for my inappropriate reply when Matteo chuckles. Then I wad the sheet and my bra into a ball and toss them into the laundry hamper, hopeful my panties are buried deep inside the sheet.
When I leave the bathroom, Matteo eyeballs my departure. Unlike me, he doesn’t hide his hungry gawk. He moistens his lips as his hooded watch switches my heavy stomps to weightless, flighty steps.
I walk into the closet and pause, hand on the doorknob, wondering whether I should close it.
With a groan, I enter the spacious area, leaving the door untouched. Matteo has already seen too much of me and the mess I pretend isn’t there. Closing the door now feels pointless.
Fake modesty is lying to no one but myself.
Leaving the door open, I put on a flirty fitted shirt and a flared floral skirt. It’s not exactly a risqué outfit, but it’s a couple of steps up from the nun suit I wore most of yesterday.
When I approach the built-in vanity station, Matteo’s figure blocks the door. With his arms crossed over his chest and his shoulder resting on the doorframe, he watches me with an unreadable expression.
I run a brush through my hair before leaving it to curl naturally. “We only bought clothes for events. They aren’t appropriate for brunch.”
“It’s all good,” he says, pushing off his feet. “That works. You look cute.”
Cute?
Is that a compliment or an insult? It’s hard to tell.
Matteo smiles at my grimace before he nudges his head to the entryway of the walk-in closet.
“Let’s go,” he says, holding out his hand. “I’m starving.”
We walk downstairs together, hand in hand.
Brunch is in the dining room today, not in the atrium, which is usually reserved for Giovanni and Valentina.
Apparently, the atrium is “occupied” by Matteo’s father and stepmother.
“Occupied” must be code for something no one wants to think about, because Matteo’s shiver matches that of Giovanni and Dante when they join us at the main dining table.
“Still convinced the family living under one roof is a good idea, Vanni?” Dante asks Giovanni when he shoves away a plate loaded with breakfast treats after only pushing its contents around with a fork. “I have no intention of visiting the sunroom anytime soon.”
Matteo shivers again, and Giovanni grimaces before muttering something under his breath in Italian. It must be a family joke—or trauma—I don’t understand.
Valentina sits beside Giovanni, yawning as if she’d rather be anywhere else.
I sympathize. Food is abundant, but having so many couples in one place feels suffocating.
Perhaps the Carusos’ obvious approval of public displays of affection caused the weird emotions that have been bombarding me the past couple of days?
I eat while pretending I’m not seconds away from getting caught in a web of alliances, obligations, and desires I shouldn’t have.
It was a dream, goddammit!
A silly, erotic, yet heart-searing dream.
At the end of brunch, Nico joins the celebrations, which seem mainly for couples, since each group sits in its own designated area. Dante, Lucia, and Camille occupy the end of the table, the highest position, Valentina and Giovanni sit to their right, and Matteo and I sit to their left.
“Matteo.” Nico plucks a slice of bacon from Giovanni’s plate, just like Matteo did to him yesterday, then moves to our side of the table. How was that only yesterday? It feels like a lifetime ago. “Can I have a word?”
Jerking his chin up, Matteo pushes back from the table and stands. Before he leaves, he turns to me. “You okay being left alone?”
His chivalry is unexpected but appreciated.
I nod. “I’m being beckoned.” When I wiggle my fingers at Camille, agreeing to her offer for us to color together with as many words as she used to ask, she digs her sketchbook out of her backpack and rips me off a clean piece.
“I’ll color with Camille until you get back. ”
The tautness of his shoulders relaxes a fraction. “Okay. I won’t be long.”
He leans in to press his lips to my forehead but freezes when he notices everyone’s eyes are on us. Then he slaps my shoulder instead.
When he leaves with Nico, Camille tugs on my sleeve before pulling me toward an art table in the corner. Crayons already cover the surface.
We’re halfway through blending the stripper pole in the middle of her drawing when her father translates the numerous facial gestures she’s making at me.
“She wants to know if you like Matteo.” Dante pulls out the closest dining room chair, twists it to face us, then sits on it. “That’s why she keeps striving for your eye contact before she peers in the direction Matteo went.”
My breath catches. “Oh…”
Camille watches me with wide, curious eyes, impatiently awaiting my reply.
I smile softly, then mumble, “He’s… ah… My feelings for him are… complicated.”
She furrows her brows, then shoots her eyes back to her father.
He hesitates before translating. “That means Azra knows Uncle Matteo is a grouch, but she’s also aware that sometimes even knights have to be like that to protect themselves.
” My teeth catch my lower lip when he reads her with such simplicity that it is awe-inspiring.
“Their story is similar to the dragon and the ballerina. Uncle Matteo just needs a little more convincing to fill his belly with water instead of whiskey.”
Camille’s giggles are faint, but I feel privileged to hear them. She leans into Dante’s embrace when he ruffles her hair, before returning her focus to her drawing.
Dante returns to Lucia, who watched their exchange with as much awe as I did.
His focus rarely diverts from Camille, but on the rare occasion when he can’t help but gawk at the stunning blonde at his side, Camille’s eyes shift toward a little boy sitting under the buffet table.
He’s waiting for his mother to finish clearing away the mess.
She watches him with the shy interest children do when they want to be their friend. It’s innocent and sweet; however, she clearly doesn’t want her father to know.
Is that why she’s so interested in my relationship with Matteo? Is she struggling to understand her feelings, too?
I tilt in close. “Can I tell you a secret?”
With her eyes back on me, Camille nods eagerly.
“My feelings for Matteo are complicated because sometimes it’s hard not knowing if the person you want to be friends with wants to be friends with you too.
” I give myself a pat on the back for my PG commentary.
I don’t have younger siblings or any nieces or nephews, so this is foreign to me.
“Unless you live in Turkey.” With Camille’s attention fully rapt on me, I continue.
“In Turkey, tradition dictates that when a girl is arranged to mar… to be best friends with someone, she puts salt in his drink. If he drinks it without complaining, it means he’s someone she can trust.”
Camille’s eyes widen with fascination before her chair’s feet squeak on the floorboards. She races across the dining room, dodging the staff cleaning up, her speed unchecked until she snatches the saltshaker from the main table.
She returns to my side, and I fill a small glass with orange juice and a pinch of salt. “If you really want to test how strong your… friendship will be, place more salt in.”
She giggles with delight when I whack the bottom of the saltshaker, dumping more than a teaspoon of salt into the drink she’ll give the little boy to test his kindness.
When I hand her the bitter concoction for the harmless test most arranged-marriage brides should undertake before they wed, instead of approaching the boy who looks no older than six, she marches straight for Matteo, who recently returned to the dining room.
My stomach drops. “Camille—”
My warning comes too late. She hands Matteo the glass, then points to me, announcing I’m the maker of the ghastly tasting juice he’s about to consume.
Matteo dips the glass in thanks, then takes a large gulp.
His face contorts, but he doesn’t spit it out. He swallows—hard—then purses his lips like his tonsils aren’t being rinsed with more salt than the Tyrrhenian Sea.
Confusion clouds his face when Camille silently squeals in delight before racing back to her mother’s side to monitor Matteo’s return to me.
He flips Camille’s chair around, then straddles it backward, his face still contorted.
“You don’t have to drink that.” I attempt to snatch the glass from his hand. “It’s a little sour. I think the oranges were old.”
He shrugs, then, to my horror, drinks the rest.
“Ready to head out?” he asks, voice husky from the rough abrasion of salt.
Too shocked to speak, I nod.
He passed the only test my mother requires to grant a man my hand in marriage.
A mix of disappointment and relief twists inside me when his steps don’t veer us toward the stairwell leading to our room. I enjoy spending time with him. Too much for a woman using him to make another man jealous. But when we’re alone, I forget the reason I’m in Sicily.
Only a little over a week remains before I can become whoever I want to be.
I just really hope Matteo can wait that long.