Page 26 of Dario DeLuca

Mia points a thumb behind her. “You were rude to that lady for no reason. You don’t run the world.”

“I said nothing to her.”

“You didn’t have to. But you did intimidate her into doing things your way.”

She’s not wrong, but I’ll bite. I like it when my bride pushes back.

“And what exactly do you think I did that was repulsive?”

“Glaring at her until you got your way.”

“That’s just my face.”

"Yeah, well, you have resting bitch face.”

“What?” I can’t help but smirk at that.

"You have resting bitch face. It means you look pissed off even when you're not."

"Are you saying I look like a bitch, Bella?" I ask, a rare flicker of humor threading through my words.

There’s a brief pause before she adds, “You’re lucky I don’t call men that.”

“Oh, I find that hard to believe. I bet you’ve called me every bitch under the sun since we met,” I tease.

“More like an asshole. Motherfucker. Dickhead.”

“‘Dickhead’. Nice.” I chuckle. “Why don’t you go ahead and get it all out? You don’t have to bite your tongue with me.”

"Maybe because you also look like you're contemplating which part of the lake to dump someone in," she retorts, a playful spark in her eyes. “And I can’t swim, so I’ll pass.”

This time, the laugh comes out full force, and even though Mia is fighting it, a soft giggle escapes her, too. This banter is new, and for a moment, the weight of our circumstances lifts, and we are just a man and a woman caught in a game neither of us fully understands.

"Is that so?" I continue.

"Absolutely," she fires back, a grin threatening the corners of her mouth.

It's a dangerous thing, this ballet of ours—dangerous and intoxicating.

Now serious, I gaze at Mia, noticing that despite how playful she’s being, there’s truth in her words. She fears me, and while that would usually excite me, it doesn’t with her. Hurting her is the last thing I intend to do.

Clearing my throat so she doesn’t mistake what I’m about to say for anything but the truth. “Your life is the only thing that matters to me.”

The air shifts as the clerk returns, a rack of dresses in tow and two bottles of water balanced precariously on a tray.

"Here you go," she says, depositing the drinks and wheeling the rack forward.

"Thank you," Mia replies, her voice neutral but her eyes alight with a silent challenge.

"Let me know if there's anything else you need," the clerk offers before departing, her presence dissipating like mist.

Mia looks through the dresses and removes several from the rack. Then, she hurries into the dressing room, pulling the curtain behind her. Minutes later, she exits wearing a red number that hugs her curves in all the right places. The material is soft silk, complimenting her beautiful bronze skin.

She saunters to the full-length mirror, twisting and turning to check herself out. The scrunch of her nose tells me that she isn’t a fan. But she watches herself a little longer to make sure.

Without a word, Mia disappears behind the curtain again, this time reemerging in a forest-green dress that has her full breasts sitting high. I don’t even try to look away, tracing the soft curve of her cleavage up to her gorgeous face. When Mia turns to face the mirror, I glimpse the low v-cut in the back that’s covered with a sheer, flesh-tone lace.

My eyes hone in on the kaleidoscope of butterflies inked into her right shoulder. She didn’t strike me as the type of woman to tattoo her body, but now I can’t help but wonder if there is more hidden underneath the layers.

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