Chapter 1 #2
His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in the updo that took two hours to perfect. He pulls, not quite rough but firm enough to tilt my head back, exposing my throat. A predator's move. A dominance display.
I force myself to stay still. There’s power in coldness—Bianca taught me that.
"Let's get this over with," he says, and kisses me.
It isn't gentle. Isn't romantic. His mouth is hot and demanding, tasting of whiskey and something darker.
His free hand finds my waist, pulling me against him as his tongue invades my mouth.
I stand there, frozen, letting it happen.
Letting him take what he wants because what's the point of fighting?
He pulls back, frowning. "You're not even trying."
"You said it wouldn't matter."
"I said fighting wouldn't matter. Being present might be nice." His hand tightens in my hair. "Or is this how it's going to be? You playing corpse while I do all the work?"
Heat floods my cheeks, shame and anger mixing into something toxic. "What do you want from me?"
"Participation. Enthusiasm. Pretend you want this, at least."
"But I don't."
And I don't have the energy to pretend otherwise. I’ve done enough.
He laughs, sharp and humorless. "Yeah, princess. I got that. I’m not keen on it either. But we're doing this anyway, so you might as well make it easier on both of us. Pleasurable, even."
"Why do you even care?" I ask.
"No one wants to fuck a cold fish, and I need to be hard to get you pregnant."
I gag in my mouth.
He releases me and steps back, pulling his shirt over his head in one smooth motion.
I've seen him shirtless at the beach house during our engagement period, one of the many forced "get to know each other" sessions Antonio insisted on.
But seeing him now, in our bedroom, knowing what's about to happen.
..I shiver. In fear, desire, desperation—who knows.
Tattoos cover his chest and abs, intricate designs that probably mean something to him. To me, they just look like war paint. Like he's marked himself as dangerous.
"Your turn," he says, gesturing to my wedding dress.
My fingers find the tiny buttons running down the back, dozens of them, painstakingly fastened by Sera's maid this morning. This afternoon. A lifetime ago.
"Need help?" He doesn't wait for an answer, just turns me around and starts unfastening them with surprising dexterity. "How many fucking buttons does one dress need?"
"It's a wedding dress."
"It's a virginity fort."
Despite everything, I almost laugh. Almost. "I'm hardly a virgin," I mutter. Thank God I'd had sex before. I'd disclosed that during the engagement, hoping Saint would want a pure bride. He'd laughed, said something crude, and made it clear he didn't care.
From what he's said, I don't think he would have had a choice if he did. Antonio, his uncle, my mother, and then my brother were the arbiters of our fate.
They wanted us married, so here we were.
"You know what the fuck I mean." He tugs at the buttons, and I hear them pop.
The dress loosens around me, and I clutch it to my chest as the fabric gapes. Saint's fingers trace down my bare spine. Not sexual. Exploratory. Like he's cataloging merchandise.
"You can drop it," he says. "I'm going to see everything in about thirty seconds anyway."
My hands tighten on the silk. This is it. The point of no return.
You've already passed that point, a bitter voice whispers in my head. You passed it when you said, "I do." When Adrian told you this was happening, and you didn't run. When you realized you had nowhere to run to.
I let the dress fall.
It pools around my feet in a waterfall of white silk and lace, leaving me in just the strapless bra and panties the stylist insisted matched the dress. Perfect for the sacrificial lamb.
Saint walks around me slowly, taking in every angle. I stand there, frozen, feeling his eyes on every inch of exposed skin. My arms want to cover myself, but I force them to stay at my sides. If I'm going to be inspected like livestock, I'll at least maintain some dignity.
"Too thin," he says finally. "But we'll work with it."
Too thin.
Fucker. I hate him.
But I don't say anything. I know that is what he wants. I just stand there. Cold. Dead.
He's not getting my anger.
He's not getting anything.
"Get on the bed."
I turn to look at it. It's a massive four-poster monstrosity that dominates the room. Our bed. Where we'll sleep together, fuck together, create the heir that will cement this alliance.
I close my eyes, doing my best to turn off my brain, allowing my feet to move me automatically.
I sit on the edge, then lie back when Saint makes an impatient gesture. The silk sheets are cool against my overheated skin.
He kicks off his shoes, unbuckles his belt. The sound of the leather sliding through the loops makes me flinch.
"Relax," he says, not unkindly. "I'm not going to hurt you. Not really."
Not really. What a comfort.
He pushes his pants and boxer briefs down in one motion, and suddenly he's naked, and this is happening, and I can't breathe—
His voice cuts through the panic. "Breathe."
I suck in air, force my lungs to work.
He climbs onto the bed, caging me in with his arms. "This is going to happen. Fighting it just makes it worse. So take a breath, and let's get through it."
Get through it. Like a dental appointment. Like something unpleasant but necessary.
I nod. I can do this.
His hand slides up my thigh, pushing my legs apart. No preamble. No seduction. Just efficient preparation for the main event. His fingers hook into my panties, tugging them down and off. Then he's between my thighs, his weight settling over me.
"This is going to hurt," he says, almost apologetic. "Sorry, I'm big."
I try not to roll my eyes. What a fucking blowhard. But I can't—he pushes into me, and God, it does hurt.
He is huge. Explains a lot.
I've only had sex exactly four times, all with my college boyfriend three years ago, and I'm dry, and his cock is splitting me open.
He pauses, gives me a moment to adjust, then keeps going until he's fully seated inside me.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Okay. Okay."
I bite my lip. I will not cry. I won't give him the satisfaction. He can take this, but that's it.
He starts moving. Long, deep strokes that make me acutely aware of every inch of him inside me. It hurts, but the pain is already fading to a dull ache. My body adjusting. Accepting.
I stare at the ceiling and start counting.
One. Two. Three.
"Look at me," Saint demands.
I keep counting.
Four. Five. Six.
"Gemma. Look at me."
I don't.
He grabs my jaw, forcing my head down, my eyes to meet his. "If I'm inside you, you at least look at me."
I look. Watch his face as he fucks me because that's what this is—fucking, not making love or anything soft. Watch the concentration in his eyes, the slight furrow between his brows. Watch him chase his release in my body.
It doesn't take long. This isn't about pleasure—mine or really his.
He finishes with a groan, and when I feel his warmth spill inside me, I sigh in relief.
The potential beginning of the heir everyone wants so badly. The possibility for freedom.
It tastes sweet on my tongue.
Saint pulls out and rolls off me, breathing hard. "Well. That's done."
I lie there, staring at the ceiling again. Something wet slides down my thigh—him, mixed with blood. Evidence of my degradation.
"You should clean up," he says, not looking at me. "Bathroom's through there."
I sit up slowly, everything aching. I spot the white robe hanging on the bathroom door and grab it, wrapping myself in it before I cross the room. I don't look at Saint. Don't want to see if he's watching me or if he's already lost interest.
The bathroom is obscenely luxurious—all marble and gold fixtures. I hate it. I start the shower, step under the spray, and let it wash away the evidence of my wedding night.
This is my life now.
Every night until I get pregnant. Saint, using my body like a vessel. No tenderness. No affection. Just biology and duty and alliance.
I scrub at my skin until it's red and raw, trying to wash away the feeling of him. It doesn't work.
When I finally emerge, wrapped in the robe, Saint is already in bed with the lights off. He's claimed the left side, so I take the right. The mattress dips under my weight.
"We'll do this every night until it takes," he says into the darkness. "Then you're free."
Free. What a word.
I don't respond. Just lie there, staring at the shadows on the ceiling.
Eventually, his breathing evens out. He falls asleep like nothing happened. Like he hasn't just taken me in the most clinical, transactional way possible.
I lie awake for hours angry enough to kill.
Saint’s lucky there’s nothing in this room I could use to slit his throat.
Sunlight streams through the curtains when I finally drag myself out of bed. Saint is already gone—no note, no explanation. Just his side of the bed, rumpled and empty.
A small miracle.
A knock on the door makes me jump.
"Mrs. Marini?" A woman's voice, heavily accented. "I have breakfast."
Mrs. Marini. That's me now.
"Come in."
A woman in her fifties enters with a tray filled with coffee, pastries, fruit, eggs. Enough food for three people. She sets it on the desk by the window and smiles at me.
"Welcome to the family. I'm Lyla, the housekeeper. If you need anything, you just ask." Her voice is thick, Italian, and though I want to be polite, I barely manage a smile.
"Thank you."
She leaves, and I stare at the tray. My stomach turns at the sight of food. The smell of eggs makes me nauseous.
I pour a cup of coffee, black, no sugar, and take it to the window. Below, the Marini compound spreads out like a fortress. Guards at the gates. High walls. A prison dressed up as protection.
The coffee is too hot, burning my tongue. I drink it anyway.
I should eat. I know that. My body needs fuel, especially if I'm expected to get pregnant. But the thought of putting food in my mouth, chewing, swallowing...
My throat closes up. I think I'm hungover.
I leave the tray untouched and go to shower again.
In the mirror afterward, I study my reflection. The same face I had yesterday. The same body. But somehow different. Used. Marked.
Too thin, Saint said.
I hate that he somehow manages to still make me feel bad. Nothing will ever be good enough. Best I understand that now.
Turning away, I get dressed in the clothes someone has unpacked for me—a simple Zimmerman midi-dress in pale blue and cream. I'm glad it's not white. It's elegant but modest and casual. Appropriate for a Marini wife. I braid my still-damp hair and apply minimal makeup.
When I finally emerge from the bedroom, I find the breakfast tray gone and a lunch tray in its place. I'd been hiding in the bathroom for hours.
It doesn't matter. I still can't eat it. I grab the water, move the food around, and then place the tray outside the door.
I'm alone. I'm tired. And I'm praying for a baby I don't even want.
When did life get so fucked up?
For the first time, I allow the tears to fall.