His to Tame (Claimed by Kings #2)

Chapter 1

Gemma

"Might want to slow down there," Saint, my new husband, says as I down my third glass of champagne. It's actually my fifth of the day, but my third in the last thirty minutes.

"I'm hoping I'll pass the fuck out before we get to your cave," I snap, the alcohol loosening my tongue. "Might be better for everyone."

Saint snorts, and I expect him to walk away, and do…whatever he needs to do. We've been married for an hour, maybe two, I’ve lost track, and we've barely said five words to each other. Instead, he surprises me and grabs my jaw in his hand. I wince as he presses is fingers hard into my bones.

"Stop looking so fucking miserable," he hisses, his dark green eyes glaring down at me. "It's a fucking party."

I wrench my face away. "It's a funeral." He reaches for me again, but I'm already halfway across the floor before he can get to me. I'm sulking. I'm being unreasonable.

And honestly, I do not care.

This wedding is a sham, and everyone here knows it.

After all, I'm not the only person who's been forced to marry a dangerous man for family alliances.

Glancing toward the stairs, I see my sister-in-law. Our eyes meet, and I see her smile turn to a frown. She starts toward me, but I move away.

I know Sera tried to help me. Luc told me that her and Adrian fought about it, but I’m so angry at Adrian that I can’t even be around his wife.

This sight of my brother at her side turns my stomach. Adrian is hosting like the perfect mafia Don, smiling with his arm around Sera, pretending like he didn’t sell me off for his own protection.

Fucker.

"Where's your husband?" I jump slightly as Luc, my other brother, slides up against me. His lighter brown hair and signature silver eyes make him a warmer sight than my brother Adrian. Though the mention of Saint makes me want to deck him.

"I don't know," I mutter, snagging another glass of alcohol. "Terrorizing a local." I bring the glass to my lips, sip, and then scrunch my brows together as I taste soda water.

"Adrian told them to stop serving you."

My fingers grip the stem so tightly I may break the glass. Asshole. He's forced me into this, and he can't even allow me to be drunk during it?

"Don't look at me like that," Luc says, holding his hands up. "I have nothing to do with this."

I snort, shaking my head. "Of course not, Luc."

Luc never has anything to do with anything. That's his shtick. He keeps himself inside the loop enough to benefit from the Nero name, but he never actually sacrifices anything. While Adrian and I were stuck in this house, this city, bowing to our mother's whims, Luc was off screwing around in L.A.

I never blamed him for it.

Until now.

"Where's your date?" I ask. "The dancer."

"Ballerina," he says, the pride in his voice causing me to raise my brow. "She had to leave. She says congratulations."

I roll my eyes. I suspect Luc told his girlfriend to run off. I don't blame him. Who would want to be part of this shit show.

Saint slides next to me. "Wife." He says the word with such disdain I shiver. I may hate this man, but he hates me just as much. It’s too bad we can’t find common ground in that. "Luciano."

Luc glares at the use of his full name, and I smirk.

One thing I’ll say about Saint—he has a knack for pissing people off.

"We are required to dance," he holds out his hand, the tattoos on it juxtaposing with the clean lines of his tux.

"No."

Luc groans. "Gem—"

I shoot him a glare. "Stay out of this, Luc," I snap, turning back to Saint. "I'm not dancing with you."

He wraps his hands around my waist. They circle me completely, and he presses me against his body. He smells like sandalwood and citrus, and I hate how I like it.

"Come on, little wife," he whispers. "Let's finish this show."

The wedding reception ends at midnight, and I thank God for it.

One more minute.

One more second.

And I was liable to throw myself from the highest balcony of my family's home and end up a Jackson Pollock on the streets of New York.

A fitting end.

I'd smiled until my face ached, accepted congratulations from people who knew this marriage was against my will and pretended that every look and touch from Saint didn't make my skin crawl.

"Planning to scowl all night?" Saint’s deep voice breaks me out of my thoughts.

"What?"

He rolls his eyes. "I'm trying to be nice, Gemma. Give you a house tour, explain the rules. The least you can do is pay fucking attention."

I scowl harder as he opens another door. I hadn't been paying attention, stupid on my part, but I wasn't going to admit that.

"The bedroom," he says, gesturing to the space.

It's large with a massive four-poster in the center. The colors are neutral and warm, and the entire place is lifeless.

I swallow heavily. "Mine or yours?"

He rolls his eyes. They are his most stunning feature—a dark green that reminds me of forest moss. They'd be nice if they weren't always so emotionless. Saint's face gives nothing away. He's like a blank slate a majority of the time.

Doesn't bode well for an easy future.

The door to our new bedroom closes behind us with a finality that makes my stomach clench. This is it.

No more pretending.

No more performance.

Just me and the tattooed psychopath I've been legally bound to six hours ago. My stomach rolls. I'd held out hope for months that I'd somehow escape this, so I feel like I'm walking to my death right now.

It's almost worse than the walk down the aisle. Because here, there's no show. Nowhere to run.

I stand, back to the door, watching Saint loosen his tie.

Those unsettling green eyes track my every movement.

He's ditched his suit jacket somewhere during the reception, and his white shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal more of the ink that covers his forearms. He looks dangerous.

Feral. Like barely contained violence wrapped in expensive Italian cotton.

"Let's get something straight," he says, pouring himself a drink from the bar cart. He doesn't offer me one. I wish he would. The buzz from the champagne has worn off, and I need something for my nerves.

"My uncle wants an heir. That's what this marriage is for.

So, we'll fuck until you're pregnant, then we can live our separate lives.

I'll have my whores, and you can have your books or whatever the fuck Nero princesses want.

You can keep the kid, and I'll bother you as little as possible. Sound good?"

The casual cruelty shouldn't surprise me. He's done nothing but insult me every chance he gets, and yet, him telling me I'm nothing more than a broodmare for his uncle pisses me off.

And while I know this is how he sees me. How they all see me. After all, they negotiated a fucking contract where my uterus is the center, it makes my blood boil.

"Fuck you," I snap.

His eyes flash. "That's the point."

"I'm not going to have sex with you. I'm not giving you a child." My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

I’m Saint’s wife, but he’s treating me like a whore with a golden womb.

Not that he cares.

He takes a long swallow of whiskey, studying me over the rim.

"I'm pretending to be polite about this but make no mistake—you don't have a fucking choice.

" He downs his whiskey, pouring another.

"If it makes it easier on you, I don't either.

Contracts were negotiated. Things were signed. ..blah...blah...blah."

"At least you got to negotiate," I remind him. "I was simply told."

He laughs, but the sound is cold, hollow. "I love that you think that I had that much power.”

I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warm May air filtering through the open balcony doors. This is my life now. This is what Adrian has sold me into. An alliance with the Marinis, sealed with my body.

For the family, Bianca, my mother, would have said. We sacrifice for the family.

Bianca is dead. She put this whole thing into motion and then got herself blown up. And yet, here I am, still sacrificing.

For the good of the family.

Saint sets down his glass and crosses the room toward me. I fight the urge to step back, to run. There's nowhere to go. This is happening whether I want it or not. All I can do is endure and pray I get pregnant quick.

I nearly spill the contents of my stomach, champagne only, all over the expensive wood floors. But I hold it in.

He stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell the whiskey on his breath. His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek with a gentleness that feels like mockery.

"You're very beautiful," he says, almost clinically, turning my head side to side as he studies me. "I'll give your brother that. At least he traded me something pretty to look at."

Something. Not someone. Something.

"Didn't you tell me I was fat?" I snap, remembering the first time we'd had dinner.

Saint chuckles but doesn't correct me.

Dickhead.

I know I'm not fat, that his words were meant to hurt me, and yet I had only eaten salad for a week after that encounter.

I stare at the hollow of his throat, at the edge of a tattoo that disappears beneath his collar and try to find that spark of rage that has carried me through the past few months.

The fury at Adrian for forcing this. The hatred for Saint and his casual cruelty. The desperate need to fight back, to prove I'm not just a pawn to be moved around the board.

But I can't find it. There's just...emptiness. I'm tired. I want to get this over with and go to sleep.

Who cares if Saint thinks I'm fat or skinny? He's going to fuck me either way. Like he said, he doesn’t have a choice.

And maybe I should be glad for the clinical way he’s going about this. I’ve heard the rumors of what he’s like in bed. I swallow back my fear.

He doesn’t get that.

"Are you going to fight me?" he asks, sounding almost curious.

"Would it matter if I did?"

Something flickers in his eyes—disappointment, maybe. "No, but it may be more fun."