Chapter 3
Gemma
Week ten of marriage, and I'm still not pregnant.
The relief is becoming harder to feel. Mostly because Antonio's disappointment is becoming impossible to ignore.
And I am so fucking bored. I went from being a graduate student with a vibrant social life to being a half-awake socialite. There's only so much shopping a woman can do before she goes crazy.
Every day someone lines up to remind me I'm not a prisoner. I can do whatever I want, within the bounds of my new life.
Saint doesn't much give a shit what I do, but he's made it clear Antonio does. And we all play by the Don's rules. Even him. So, I try.
My cage exists, even if they all expect me to pretend it doesn’t.
The weekly dinners with Antonio have become routine. Every Thursday, seven o'clock, and more often than not, it’s just the two of us.
Saint works. A lot. And yet, I’m not allowed to bug off. There’s some unspoken agreement that these are Antonio’s times to “check in” on his investment.
I fucking hate it. I hate the way Antonio manages me, and how his dark eyes are always searching me, checking for any sign that my marriage to Saint has been fruitful.
It’s just a reminder that Antionio is just as bad as Saint, maybe worse.
At least, Saint doesn’t pretend to see me and more than a womb.
Antonio does.
It's why I hate these dinners.
And yet…here I am…like a good little girl.
"How are you feeling?" Antonio asks, cutting into his steak. He always eats steak—bloody.
"Fine."
"Your color looks better. You're eating more. It’s good to see you doing better.”
I give Antonio a small, demure smile, playing into the role that he’s created for me.
This is something that Bianca taught me.
She could play the part of sweet and simple socialite while planning a murder.
I really leaned on that right now. It was the only thing keeping me from screaming.
“You’ve all been so kind,” I push food around my plate, “how could I not?”
"Good." He smiles at me. Wide, all-teeth. "You know, my late wife, Saint's aunt, took almost a year to conceive with our first. These things take time." I stiffen, not sure who he is trying to convince—me or himself.
"Did you have weekly dinners with her to discuss her fertility?" I snap, smiling still.
His doesn’t falter. "I didn't have to. She knew her duty. Even before I became Don." He takes a sip of his whiskey. "Back then, we didn't last as long. Sons were important."
I cringe and take a sip of water, swallowing the retort burning on my tongue.
"Saint tells me you're more cooperative, lately,” Antonio continues. "That’s good. It’s my hope that the two of you can form a healthy partnership.”
Cooperative? I nearly snort. Saint is a liar. I don't know why, but I like that knowledge. Despite everything, it makes me feel like I'm not completely alone in this. He doesn't want his uncle to know how badly we're doing.
"I'm doing my best."
"I know, and I appreciate it." He reaches across the table, pats my hand. Fatherly. Kind. It's a farce. "Just remember that this serves everyone. Your family, my family, you and Saint. When you have a child, everything will make sense."
I nod because what else can I do?
"Now, eat," he orders. "You're too thin."
I shove a spoonful of food into my mouth, wishing I could choke him.
After dinner, I return to the bedroom and wait.
Eleven o'clock comes and goes.
Eleven thirty.
Midnight.
At twelve fifteen, I hear his footsteps in the hall.
The door opens, and Saint walks in.
Covered in blood.
Not a little. Not a splash. Covered. His white shirt is soaked through, rusty red and black in places where it's dried. His hands are crimson. There's a spray pattern across his jaw.
I freeze, sitting on the edge of the bed in my nightgown.
He closes the door behind him, eyes finding mine.
"What—" My voice cracks, blinking as I take in the scene. "What the hell happened?"
"Work."
"You're covered in—"
"Blood. Yeah." He starts unbuttoning his shirt, movements casual. Like this is normal.
I don't know what to say. I know, abstractly, what Saint does. Saint’s reputation for bloodshed is horrific.
I could ignore it before, even when I saw a spot of crimson here and there. I could pretend. It's much harder to do when Saint is standing before me blood-soaked.
"You should shower," I manage. The smell of copper is making my mouth water in nausea.
He pauses, shirt half-off. "Should I?"
"Yes. Before you…before we—"
"Before I fuck you?" His eyes are cold. Assessing. "Don't pretend you don't know what I do, Gemma. Your brother does the same shit. It's all blood and bullets in our world."
I shiver. There’s something about his bluntness that always put me on edge.
"I know, but—"
"But you don't want to see it. Want to keep pretending I'm just some asshole who comes in at eleven for our appointment.
" He drops the shirt on the floor, revealing his tattooed chest, smeared with dried blood.
"Too bad. I'm not going to let you bury your fucking head in the sand about why we are here.
He stalks toward me, and I stand automatically, trying to find an escape.
"Saint—"
His green eyes are dark, feral. This is bloodlust. Adrenaline. He should not be near me right now. It's not safe.
I feel like prey, and I don’t like it.
"I want to see it on your perfect skin," he says, voice low. Dangerous. "The blood. Want to mark you with someone else's death. Because it's either their blood or yours, princess. And I know you'd rather it be theirs."
It's a barely veiled threat, and a reminder that violence is always close, always possible. Saint has been putting on a veneer of civility, but this is the who he really is. A monster.
He reaches me, hands finding my waist. His palms leave rust-red prints on the white silk of my nightgown.
I should fight. Should demand he shower. Should do something other than stand here, frozen, as he pulls me against him.
But I don't.
Because under the horror, under the disgust, there's something else.
Something dark and twisted that responds to the danger. To the evidence of what he is. To being claimed by someone capable of this violence.
He kisses me, and I taste the coppery blood on his lips
I should pull away.
Instead, I kiss him back.
He makes a sound, surprise, maybe, and his hands tighten on my waist. The kiss deepens, turns hungry. His tongue invades my mouth, and I let it. I allow him to consume me.
He pushes me back onto the bed, climbing over me. Blood transfers from his skin to mine, smearing across my collarbone, my chest. Marking me just like he said.
"Fuck," he breathes, pulling back to look at the red on my skin. "You're so goddamn beautiful like this. Like art."
His hand slides up my thigh, pushing my nightgown up, finding me wet.
He freezes.
"You're—" He looks at me, something shifting in his expression. "You're turned on."
Shame floods through me. Because I am. God help me, I am. There’s some dark part of me that is attracted to this part of Saint. The monster.
I don’t understand it, but it calls to me.
Not that I’m going to admit it.
"No—"
"Don't lie." He pushes a finger inside me, and I gasp, arching my back. I'm sensitive. "You're soaked, Gemma. The blood, the violence," he chuckles. "It gets you hot just like it did before.”
"That's not—"
"It is." He pulls his hand away, brings his fingers to his mouth. Tastes me mixed with blood. My eyes zero in on his lips. "Interesting."
He undoes his belt, pushes his pants down. Settles between my thighs.
"Let's try something different tonight." That's the only warning I have before he enters me.
This is different from the other times. Slower. More deliberate. He's not being gentle for the sake of gentleness. No, he's studying me. Playing with me.
I'm stuck in his web, and I can't help but respond.
He changes the angle, hits something that makes me gasp.
"There?" he asks.
I don't answer.
He does it again. And again. Building a rhythm that has me biting my lip, hands fisting in the sheets.
"Let me hear you."
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to stop myself from giving Saint what he wants.
"No—"
He reaches between us, finds my clit with his thumb. Circles it with just enough pressure to make my hips jerk. I'm sticky with wetness and blood, and the idea of what this looks like causes me to quiver.
He thrusts again, hitting that spot that makes me tighten.
"I said let me hear you."
The combination of the angle, the pressure, the blood on my skin, the weight of him is too much. My stomach is a tight coil, and I'm trying to keep that coil from releasing.
No. No, I can't. I won't give him this. I bite my lip, look away. Squeeze my muscles tightly.
But Saint won't allow it.
He grabs my throat, wrenching me until I have no choice but to look at him. "I said, let me fucking hear you." His thumb presses on the delicate column of my throat.
My body responds to the stimulation, to the dark thrill of everything that's wrong about this.
I snap, cumming with a broken cry, arching up into him.
He watches me through it, eyes intense. Fascinated.
"Fuck," he breathes. Then he's moving again, harder now, chasing his own release. He comes inside me with a groan, forehead dropping to my shoulder.
We lie there, both breathing hard. His weight is heavy on me. Our skin sticky with drying blood and sweat.
Finally, he pulls out and rolls off.
Silence.
I can feel him staring at me.
"Well," he says finally. "That was unexpected."
Humiliation burns through me. I came. I actually came while he fucked me covered in someone's blood.
What the fuck is wrong with me.
He smirks, and I know he's going to say something.
"Don't," I say, voice hard.
"Don't what?"
"Don't say anything. Just...don't."
He's quiet for a moment. "Go shower. Get the blood off."
I get up without looking at him, cross to the bathroom. In the mirror, I see the rust-red stains on my skin. Evidence. I'm grateful he kept my nightgown on like he always does. It means I don't have to face what I've done as long as I keep my eyes away from my bottom half.
I shower until the water runs clear. Until there's no trace of blood or him or what just happened.
When I come out, Saint is in bed, cleaned up. He must have taken his own shower in another room.
I climb into my side, careful not to touch him.
"Gemma."
I don't respond.
"Gemmaaaa." There's a sing-song quality to his voice. He's enjoying this.
"Please stop talking."
He chuckles.
"You liked it. The rough stuff. The danger."
"I said stop."
He does. But I can feel him thinking.
And I realize something that makes my stomach drop.
I gave him something tonight. Something I didn't mean to give. A reaction. A response. Proof that I'm not completely dead inside, that some part of me can still feel, still want.
Now he has more leverage.
He knows how much the monster turns me on. I’ve given him leverage.
And he’s given me some as well…
Because he responded.
He hadn’t been hard when he came into the room. He’d come to scare me, and yet…he wanted me. He fucked me. He gave me pleasure.
Maybe it's not just my weakness.
Maybe it's his too.
I file that information away, a small spark of something in the dark. Not hope. Nothing so optimistic.
But...possibility.
He likes when I respond. He wants me to participate, to enjoy it. And that’s something I can control.
For the first time since this marriage started, I have bargaining power.
My body. Not just as a vessel for his heir, but as something he wants to react. Something that can affect him.
It's not much.
But it's more than I had yesterday.
In the darkness, I count my breaths and plan.
One. Two. Three.