Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
ARIA
Living in Salvatore's wing was a special kind of psychological torture that no amount of beautiful furniture could disguise.
My suite was objectively gorgeous. Silk curtains in deep burgundy. Antique furniture that probably cost more than most people made in a year. A four-poster bed with sheets that felt like sleeping on clouds. A bathroom with marble everything and a tub big enough to drown in.
A gilded cage was still a cage, no matter how expensive the bars.
The worst part was the shared sitting room.
The door that connected my suite to Salvatore's master bedroom.
Unlocked on his side. A constant reminder that he could walk through whenever he wanted.
That nothing here was truly mine. That I existed at his pleasure, in his space, under his complete control.
He hadn't tried anything yet beyond casual touches. A hand on my shoulder when he passed. Fingers on my waist when he guided me through doorways. His palm on the small of my back at dinners.
Each touch made my skin crawl. Made me want to scrub myself raw. Made me bite my tongue so hard I tasted blood to keep from flinching away.
But I knew what was coming. Could see it in the way his eyes tracked me. The way he looked at me like I was a possession he was waiting to unwrap. The casual ownership in every gesture.
After the wedding, those touches would become something else entirely. Something I couldn't think about without nausea rising in my throat.
Breakfast every morning had become mandatory. I'd sit across from him at the small table in his private dining room, forcing down food I couldn't taste while he talked about wedding details.
"I've decided on orchids for your bouquet. White orchids to represent purity. Fitting for a virgin bride."
I'd nearly choked on my coffee. Managed to turn it into a cough.
Virgin. Right. That ship had sailed months ago in a hotel room with his son.
"That sounds beautiful. Thank you for putting so much thought into the details."
Dinner was worse. Hours of him discussing our future like it was something I should be excited about instead of dreading with every fiber of my being.
"I expect at least three sons. Heirs to continue the family legacy. You're young and healthy. That shouldn't be difficult to achieve."
Three sons. With him. The thought made me want to vomit on the expensive china.
"I'll do my best to give you everything you desire."
The lies were getting easier. More automatic. Like I was becoming someone else entirely. Someone who could smile and agree while internally screaming.
I hadn't seen Kai in five days. Five days that felt like five years. Five days of wondering if he was okay, if the plan was progressing, if we'd actually pull this off.
The separation was destroying me. Making it hard to sleep. Hard to eat. Hard to remember why I was fighting so hard to survive when surviving meant living this nightmare.
Lia managed to sneak me notes sometimes. Brief messages folded into napkins at meals or slipped into my hand when we passed in hallways.
"Kai is working on the plan. Stay strong. Almost there."
"Father Benedetto is almost convinced. Just a little longer."
"Hold on. We're going to make it."
Those notes were lifelines. Proof that I wasn't alone. That someone was fighting for me even when I couldn't see them.
But they weren't enough. Weren't the same as seeing Kai. Touching him. Hearing his voice tell me it would be okay.
I was drowning. Slowly. And those notes were air bubbles that let me breathe for a few seconds before the water closed over my head again.
The seventh night in Salvatore's wing, I thought I might actually lose my mind.
Salvatore had left for a meeting across the city. Some territorial dispute that required his personal attention. He wouldn't be back until morning.
I should have felt relief. A few hours without his oppressive presence. Without having to perform.
Instead, I felt empty. Hollow. Like all the fighting had drained out of me and left nothing but exhaustion.
I lay in bed at midnight, staring at the ceiling, willing sleep to come. It refused. My mind kept spinning through worst-case scenarios. What if the plan failed? What if the wedding actually happened? What if I ended up like Salvatore's other wives—dead before forty?
What if I never saw Kai again? That thought hurt worse than all the others combined.
The door to my suite opened. I bolted upright, heart hammering, reaching for the lamp on my nightstand like it could be used as a weapon.
Kai stepped into the moonlight streaming through my windows.
For a second, I thought I was hallucinating. That my desperate mind had conjured him from pure need. Then he locked the door behind him and I knew he was real.
I was out of bed and across the room before conscious thought caught up. Threw myself at him so hard we both stumbled.
His arms wrapped around me immediately. Crushed me against his chest. His mouth found mine, hot and desperate and claiming.
I opened for him, pouring every ounce of loneliness and fear and desperate love into the contact. His tongue swept past my lips, tasting, claiming, reminding me exactly who I belonged to.
The moment the door clicked shut behind us, the air in the room shifted.
It was like the world outside ceased to exist—no more whispered threats, no more scheming enemies, no more weight of the empire pressing down on us.
Just him. Just me. My body starved for the way he filled me, claimed me, ruined me.
When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard.
"How did you get in here? The guards—"
"Patrol change creates a three-minute window. I know every blind spot in this house." His hands cupped my face. "Your father won't be back until morning. We have a few hours."
"A few hours." I wanted to laugh. Wanted to cry. Settled for pulling him toward the bed. "That's not nearly enough time."
"It's what we have. So I'm going to make every second count."
Kai didn’t even let me take a full breath before his hands were on me.
One second, I was standing there, my fingers still trembling from the adrenaline of sneaking past his father’s guards, and the next, his arms were around me, lifting me like I weighed nothing.
The strength in him was terrifying—controlled, effortless, as if I were made of glass and steel at the same time.
His chest rose and fell against mine, his heartbeat a wild drum beneath my palm, and when he laid me down on the bed, it wasn’t with the brutality I expected.
It was careful. Reverent. Like I was something precious he’d been denied for too long.
"God, I’ve missed you." His voice was a growl, rough and raw, his thumbs brushing over my cheekbones like he was memorizing the shape of me. "Five days and I was losing my fucking mind."
I should’ve been scared. I should’ve been thinking about the consequences, about the fact that his father’s men were probably still searching for me, about the blood on both our hands.
But all I could focus on was the heat of his body over mine, the way his dark eyes burned into me, possessive and hungry.
My fingers curled into the sheets, my pulse hammering between my thighs.
"I have missed you too," I whispered, my voice steadier than I felt. The words tasted like sin on my tongue, but I meant them. I needed him to erase everything, the fear, the doubt, the ghost of Salvatore’s hands on me. "Make me forget where I am. Make me forget everything except this. Except us."
A low, feral sound tore from his throat.
His hands moved faster then, yanking at the zipper of my dress with a violence that made my breath catch.
The fabric tore, the sound sharp in the quiet room, and suddenly I was exposed—cool air hitting my bare skin, my nipples tightening under his gaze.
I didn’t have time to be self-conscious.
Not when he was staring at me like he wanted to devour me whole.
I reached for him just as desperately, my fingers clawing at his shirt.
Buttons popped, scattering across the floor like tiny gunshots, and then his chest was bare beneath my palms, hard muscle and ridged scars, a landscape of battles I’d never seen but could feel in the way he moved, in the way he fought for every inch of me.
I pressed myself against him, my small hands roaming over the dips and planes of his torso, my lips seeking his before he could even lean down.
The kiss was wrong. Not sweet. Not tender.
It was teeth and tongue and need, a collision of everything we’d been holding back.
His mouth crashed into mine, his tongue forcing its way past my lips, tangling with mine in a way that made my toes curl.
I could taste the whiskey he’d drunk earlier, the faint metallic tang of blood from where he’d split his lip in a fight—I didn’t know when, didn’t care.
All that mattered was the way his hands slid up my thighs, his fingers digging into my hips, pulling me closer until I could feel the thick, insistent ridge of his cock pressing against my stomach.
I moaned into his mouth, my back arching, my body already wet and aching for him.
He groaned in response, the sound vibrating against my lips, and then his hands were in my hair, fisting the dark waves, tilting my head just so he could deepen the kiss.
His teeth grazed my lower lip, biting down just enough to sting, and I gasped, my nails raking down his back.
"Fuck, Aria," he snarled, his voice rough with desire. "You drive me out of my goddamn mind."