Chapter 9
GAbrIEL
Six-thirty in the morning and I am already awake, dressed for my run, lacing up my shoes in the kitchen when I hear it.
A soft scraping sound coming from the side of the house.
Most people would not notice it—would write it off as wind or an animal or nothing at all. But I have spent the last fifteen years training myself to notice every sound that does not belong, every shift in the environment that signals something is wrong, and this sound definitely does not belong.
I move to the window and look out, and I cannot help the smile that spreads across my face.
Rosalina is halfway down the side of the mansion, clinging to a drainpipe like her life depends on it, her curly hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing dark clothes that blend into the shadows.
She moves carefully, testing each handhold before committing her weight, and I have to admit—she is good.
Better than good. If I had not been standing right here at exactly the right moment, she might have actually made it.
Might have.
But what strikes me most is not her skill—though that is impressive—it is the way her body moves.
Fluid and controlled, muscles flexing beneath her clothes as she climbs down with the grace of someone who has done this before.
Her thighs grip the drainpipe, and even from here I can see the strength in them, can imagine how they would feel wrapped around my waist while I—
Focus, Salvatore.
I slip out the side door silently, moving around the perimeter of the house until I am standing directly below her, arms crossed over my chest, waiting.
I take the opportunity to really look at her while she is distracted—the curve of her ass in those tight black leggings, the way her shirt rides up slightly as she reaches for the next handhold, exposing a strip of smooth pale skin that makes my mouth water.
She does not notice me until her foot touches the ground.
"Going somewhere, Bella?" I ask.
She whips around so fast she nearly loses her balance, and I watch her eyes go wide when she sees me standing there.
God, she is gorgeous when she is caught off guard—all flushed cheeks and parted lips and wild eyes that flash with anger and something hotter underneath.
For half a second she looks like she might run anyway—I can see her calculating the distance to the gate, the odds of making it before I catch her—but then her shoulders slump slightly in defeat.
"Fuck," she breathes, and the word sounds obscene coming from that pretty mouth.
"Good morning to you too."
She straightens, lifting her chin in that defiant way she has, trying to salvage some dignity from getting caught literally climbing out a window. The movement draws my attention to her throat—long and elegant and just begging to have marks put on it. "Are you going to drag me back inside?"
"Depends. Were you planning on coming back, or is this a permanent escape attempt?"
"What do you think?"
I step closer, watching the way her body tenses, the way her weight shifts onto the balls of her feet like she is preparing to bolt or fight depending on which option presents itself first. The movement makes her chest rise and fall faster, and I can see the outline of her nipples through her sports bra beneath the thin shirt.
She is not wearing much—probably because she was trying to travel light—and the realization that there are only two thin layers of fabric between my hands and her bare skin makes heat pool low in my gut.
"I think running is not smart."
"And staying here is?" she snaps, gesturing at the house behind her. "Staying here and letting you three pass me around like some kind of—"
"Stop," I cut her off, my voice harder than I intended. "Stop saying that."
"Why? It's true, isn't it? That's what you want. To share me. To pimp me out between the three of you like I'm some kind of—"
"Rosalina." I close the distance between us in two strides, and she backs up against the wall of the house, eyes flashing with anger and something that looks uncomfortably close to fear.
But underneath the fear is something else—something that makes her pupils dilate, makes her breathing pick up, makes her press her thighs together in a way she probably thinks I do not notice.
"Listen to me very carefully. We are not pimping you out. That is not what this is."
"Then what is it?" she demands, and her voice cracks slightly on the last word.
Up close, she is even more devastating. Her skin is smooth and flawless except for a small scar near her left eyebrow that I want to trace with my tongue.
Her lips are full and soft-looking, still slightly swollen from where she was biting them while climbing.
Her eyes are this incredible shade of hazel that catches the early morning light and turns almost amber.
And those curls escaping from her bun frame her face in a way that makes me want to pull the whole thing down and fist my hands in it while I—
Jesus Christ, Salvatore. Get it together.
"It is three men who want the same woman," I say, keeping my voice level, calm, even though my pulse is hammering. "Three men who have shared before and know how to do it right. Three men who would never—and I mean never—do anything without your consent."
She laughs, sharp and bitter. "My consent? I didn't consent to any of this. I didn't consent to this marriage or this house or this fucked up arrangement where—"
"You walked down that aisle," I remind her, and I hear the edge creeping into my voice now. "You said the vows. Nobody forced you."
"I did it for Erin!"
"I know. And that does not change the fact that you are here now, married to Dante, living in this house.
You can keep fighting it, keep trying to escape, keep pretending you do not feel anything—" I step closer, close enough that I can see the rapid flutter of her pulse in her throat, close enough that I can smell her—something floral and clean with a hint of sweat from the exertion of climbing that should not be as intoxicating as it is.
"—or you can stop running and actually think about what we are offering. "
"What you're offering," she repeats, and her voice is shaking now—with anger or something else, I cannot tell. "You're offering to share me like I'm a toy you can pass around whenever—"
"Stop putting words in my mouth." I plant my hands on the wall on either side of her head, caging her in, forcing her to look at me.
This close, I can count her individual eyelashes, can see the way her chest is heaving with each breath, can feel the heat radiating off her body.
"That is not what this is. That is not what we do. "
"Then what do you do?" she challenges, and I can see her trying to hold onto her anger, trying to use it as armor against whatever else she is feeling.
"We take care of what is ours," I say simply, letting my gaze drop deliberately to her mouth before meeting her eyes again. "Together. All three of us focused on making sure our woman is satisfied, protected, worshipped the way she deserves."
She swallows hard, and I watch her throat move, watch the way her tongue darts out to wet her lips. The small movement makes my cock twitch in my running shorts, and I have to fight the urge to press my hips forward, to let her feel exactly what she does to me.
"I'm not yours."
"Aren't you?" I lean in closer, until my mouth is near her ear, until I can feel her breath coming faster against my neck.
She smells even better this close—something that makes me want to bury my face in her throat and breathe her in until I am drowning in it.
"Then why haven't you run yet? Why are you still standing here arguing with me instead of making a break for the gate? "
"Because you're blocking me."
"I'm not touching you, Bella. You could run right now if you wanted to." I pull back just enough to meet her eyes, and I see the way they have gone dark, the way her pupils have blown wide. "So why don't you?"
Silence.
She opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again. Nothing comes out. But I can see her chest rising and falling rapidly, can see the way she is pressing her thighs together harder now, can practically feel the tension vibrating off her skin.
"Do you not feel anything between us?" I ask quietly, and I let some of the carefully maintained control slip from my voice, let her hear the real question underneath. "When I look at you. When I touch you. When I'm close like this. Do you feel nothing?"
She looks away, jaw tight, and I can see her fighting with herself, fighting to maintain the walls she has built.
But her body is betraying her—the rapid pulse in her throat, the flush creeping up her neck, the way she is barely breathing like she is afraid any movement will break whatever fragile control she is clinging to.
"Rosalina," I say her name softly. "Look at me."
She does, reluctantly, and the conflict in her eyes is so raw it actually makes my chest tighten. But underneath the conflict is heat—pure, undeniable heat that makes my blood run hotter.
"Do you feel anything?" I ask again.
"Yes," she whispers finally, and the admission sounds like it costs her something. "But it doesn't matter."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm Dante's wife."
"And Dante knows," I tell her, watching her face carefully, watching the way her lips part slightly, the way her breathing gets even more shallow. "Dante wants this. He would not fight you on it. He would encourage it."
She shakes her head, but the movement is weak. "That's insane."