Chapter 8 #2
The smell hits me.
Shepherd's pie.
Rich and savory and exactly the way Seamus's cook makes it, with the perfect ratio of meat to vegetables to those creamy mashed potatoes on top that I have loved since I was ten years old, and my stomach betrays me completely by growling loud enough that everyone at the table definitely hears it.
Traitor.
I look down at the plate in front of me, confusion warring with suspicion and a desperate, pathetic hope that makes me hate myself a little.
Gabriel sits across from me, watching with those steady gray eyes that miss absolutely nothing.
Luca is to my left, sprawled in his chair like he doesn’t have a single care in the entire world, and Dante takes the seat to my right, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body like a furnace.
"Seamus says it is your favorite," Gabriel says, his voice neutral.
My head snaps up so fast my neck cracks audibly. "You talked to Seamus?"
"Yes," Luca says, and when I turn to look at him I am struck—not for the first time this week—by how unfairly attractive he is.
Sharp cheekbones and full lips and those green eyes that always seem to be laughing at some private joke only he understands.
He leans back in his chair, completely at ease.
"We have agreed to continue with the arrangement. "
"What arrangement?" I demand, even though my brain is still stuck on the fact that they talked to Seamus, that he knows where I am, that he apparently told them my favorite food like this is all perfectly normal.
"The marriage," Dante says, like it is obvious. "The alliance. All of it."
I blink at him. Then at Gabriel. Then at Luca. "You are serious."
"Completely."
My mind races, tripping over itself. If the arrangement is continuing, that means Seamus is not looking for Erin.
That means she got away clean. That means Dolan got her somewhere safe, somewhere they can be together, somewhere she can finally breathe without the weight of duty and expectations crushing her into something she was never meant to be.
Relief floods through me so intensely that I actually have to grip the edge of the table to keep myself steady, to keep from dissolving into tears or laughter or some hysterical combination of both.
She made it. She is safe. She is free.
And I am here.
I look at Luca again—really look at him this time, let my gaze travel over the sharp line of his jaw, the way his shirt clings to broad shoulders, the casual strength evident in every line of his body like violence is something he wears comfortably.
Then I glance at Gabriel—solid and calm and dangerously competent in that quiet way that makes you forget how lethal he is until it is way too late.
And finally at Dante, who is watching me with an expression I cannot quite read but that makes something low in my stomach flutter traitorously.
Three men.
Three handsome, powerful, dangerous men who apparently want to share me like I am some kind of communal property.
I do not understand it. Do not understand why three men who could have anyone would want to share. Do not understand the logistics of it or the reasoning or literally anything about this entire insane situation.
"What is on your mind?" Dante asks, and there is something knowing in his voice, something that tells me he saw exactly where my gaze went and what I was thinking and is enjoying my confusion far too much.
I should lie. I should deflect. I should keep my mouth shut and maintain some semblance of dignity.
Instead, I hear myself say, "I do not understand why you share."
The table goes quiet.
Like, actually silent. Not a fork moving, not a breath taken, just absolute stillness that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
Luca leans in close—so close I can smell his cologne, something expensive and woodsy that makes my head spin in ways I absolutely refuse to analyze—and his mouth is right next to my ear when he whispers, "Because there is nothing hotter than seeing your girl filled to the brim."
I choke on my own spit.
Heat floods my face, my neck, spreading down my chest in a wave of mortification as my brain very helpfully supplies extremely vivid mental images of what exactly he means, and I grab my wine glass without thinking, bringing it to my lips and taking a long drink just to have something to do with my hands, just to give myself a second to recover.
The wine is perfect.
Rich and red and slightly sweet—my favorite, the exact kind Seamus always orders for special occasions, the kind I have been drinking since I was sixteen and he decided I was old enough to appreciate good wine.
I lower the glass slowly, staring at it like it might have answers.
"What is going on?" I ask, looking at Dante because he seems like the leader of this little operation.
Gabriel is the one who answers. "Last week we came on kind of strong. So let us propose this better."
I turn to look at him, waiting, trying to ignore the way my heart is beating too fast.
"We like to share," Gabriel says, and his voice is calm, measured, like he is explaining something perfectly reasonable and not absolutely insane. "Because we are busy men, and we like to know our woman is being taken care of."
"And punished accordingly," Luca adds, and the smile on his face is absolutely wicked and does things to my pulse that I am going to pretend did not happen.
My pulse jumps. Traitor.
"We will not pressure you to do anything," Gabriel continues, and there is something almost gentle in his voice now. "But the offer stands. You can think about it. Take your time."
I look at Dante, searching his face for—I do not even know what. Some sign that this is a joke, maybe. Some indication that they are testing me or playing some elaborate game.
"And what if I just want to be your wife?" I ask quietly, hating how small my voice sounds.
Dante's expression softens slightly, just a fraction. "Then that is fine."
"Just yours," I clarify, needing to hear him say it. "Not theirs."
"If that is what you want, then yes. Just mine."
I stare at him, trying to figure out if he means it, if he would really let me choose, if this is some kind of trap I am too stupid or too desperate to see.
But his eyes are steady, honest, and I find myself almost believing him.
Almost.
"Fine," I say, turning back to my plate with more force than necessary. "Then I choose you. Just you."
"Noted," Dante says, and I cannot tell if he sounds disappointed or relieved or completely indifferent.
I pick up my fork and take a bite of the shepherd's pie, and it is exactly as good as it smells, exactly as good as I remember, and for just a moment I let myself enjoy the taste of something familiar in this strange, overwhelming place that has become my prison.
Then my brain catches up with my mouth, and I realize what I just said.
What I just agreed to.
I just told Dante I want to be his wife. His alone.
Panic flutters in my chest like a trapped bird, but I shove it down, force myself to take another bite, to act like this is fine, like I am in control.
I am not in control.
I have not been in control since the moment I walked down that aisle in Erin's place.
"So," I say, because apparently I cannot leave well enough alone, "do I get my door back now?"
"No," Dante says without even looking at me.
"Why not?"
"Because you have not earned it yet."
I turn to glare at him. "Earned it? It is a door. A basic component of a room. A fundamental architectural element. You cannot just—"
"I can," he says mildly, cutting into his own food. "And I did."
"You are a tyrant."
"And you are a brat."
The word lands like a slap, sharp and startling, and I feel my face flush hot with something that is definitely anger and absolutely nothing else.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me." Dante leans back in his chair, watching me with those impossible blue eyes that see way too much. "You have spent the last week throwing tantrums, refusing food, attempting to escape, and generally making everyone's lives more difficult than necessary."
"I am a prisoner," I snap, slamming my fork down harder than intended. "What exactly did you expect?"
"I expected you to be smart enough to realize you are not going anywhere," he says, and his voice is harder now, edged with something dangerous. "I expected you to stop fighting the inevitable and start figuring out how to make the best of your situation."
"The best of my situation?" I laugh, and it sounds slightly unhinged even to my own ears. "I was lied to, manipulated into a marriage I did not choose, and now I am being held captive by three men who think they can just—"
"You chose this," Dante cuts me off, and his voice is like iron now. "You walked down that aisle. You said the vows. You put on the ring. Nobody forced you."
"I did it for Erin!"
"I know. And that changes nothing about the reality of your situation."
I want to throw my wine in his face. I want to stab him with my fork. I want to scream until my throat bleeds and the entire house hears exactly what I think of this entire situation.
Instead, I very deliberately take another bite of my food and chew slowly, aggressively, while maintaining eye contact like this is some kind of dominance contest I have any hope of winning.
"Better," Dante says dryly.
"Fuck you."
His eyes flash. "Watch your mouth."
"Or what?" I challenge, because apparently I have a death wish and no sense of self-preservation whatsoever. "You will take away my utensils too? Lock me in the basement? What else could you possibly do to make this worse?"
Dante's jaw tightens, and I see the exact moment his patience snaps like a wire pulled too tight.
He moves fast—one hand fisting in my hair at the base of my skull, the other gripping my arm, and then I am being hauled out of my chair and across his lap before I can even process what is happening.
"What—"
The first smack lands on my ass with enough force to make me yelp, the sound sharp and shocking in the quiet dining room.
"Dante!" I shriek, trying to twist away, but his arm is banded across my lower back like iron, holding me in place, and when the second smack lands in almost the exact same spot I feel it through my entire body.
"I told you," he says, and his voice is infuriatingly calm, almost bored, "to watch your mouth."
SMACK.
"Let me go!"
SMACK.
"Not until you learn some respect."
SMACK.
The heat blooming across my ass is uncomfortable and humiliating and—God help me—arousing in a way that makes me want to die of shame right here on his lap.
"I hate you," I gasp out, because it is the only thing I can think to say that might make this stop.
SMACK.
"You have mentioned that."
SMACK.
My eyes are burning, my face is on fire with mortification, and I can feel Luca and Gabriel watching—can feel their eyes on me while Dante disciplines me like a child who misbehaved at dinner—and the humiliation of it is almost worse than the actual pain.
Almost.
SMACK.
"Are you done?" Dante asks, and his hand is resting on my ass now, heavy and warm, not hitting anymore but not letting me up either.
I do not answer. I am too busy trying to breathe through the mortification, trying not to cry, trying not to acknowledge the way my body is responding to this in ways that are absolutely unacceptable.
"I asked you a question, Flower."
"Yes," I grit out through clenched teeth that I am definitely not grinding together. "I am done."
"Good."
He releases me, and I scramble off his lap like it is on fire, stumbling slightly as I try to get my balance back. My ass is throbbing, my face is burning, and I cannot look at any of them—cannot meet their eyes without dissolving into tears or violence or both.
"Sit down and finish your dinner," Dante says, like nothing happened.
I stand there, trembling with rage and humiliation and something else I absolutely refuse to name, seriously considering whether it would be worth it to launch myself at him and see how much damage I can do before Gabriel pulls me off.
"Rosalina," he says, and there is a warning in his voice now. "Sit."
I sit.
I pick up my fork with a hand that is definitely not shaking and take a bite of food that I can barely taste because my entire body is vibrating with fury and my ass is throbbing and I am acutely aware of every single breath the three of them take.
"Good girl," Dante murmurs, and the praise sends an unwanted shiver down my spine that I am going to pretend absolutely did not happen.
I hate him.
I hate all of them.
But as I sit there eating my favorite meal in silence while my ass throbs from Dante's hand and Luca smirks into his wine and Gabriel watches me with those knowing gray eyes that see way too much, I realize with sinking, horrible dread that hate might not be the only thing I am feeling.
And that terrifies me more than anything else that has happened this week.
More than the locked door and the escape attempts and the realization that I am trapped here with three men who apparently want to share me like some kind of communal possession.
Because if I do not hate them—if there is something else underneath all this rage and fear and defiance—then I am in so much more trouble than I thought.
And I do not know if I am strong enough to survive it.