Page 163 of Stalking Ginevra

I select a Grecian style gown in emerald green, with a jeweled shoulder strap and matching waistband. It’s elegant, timeless, without being too revealing. Maria takes me into the changing room, where she pins up my hair with strands of pearls and jewels. One of her girls applies makeup, making me unrecognizable.

The woman gazing back at me through the mirror is sophisticated. Untouchable. She would never submit to a brute like Bob Brisket, let alone Samson.

“You’ve made an excellent choice, Mrs. Montesano.” Maria says as she exits.

I glance from left to right, taking in my surroundings. The changing room feels like a boudoir with mirrors taking up an entire wall reflecting a chaise lounge against the far wall wide enough for two.

Nerves flutter in my belly. This dress, the heels, the perfection of it all feels like I’m playing a role. Benito’s going to take one look at me and laugh.

The door opens with a soft creak.

I catch his reflection in the mirror before I even turn around. Benito steps inside, his dark gaze sweeping over my body with an intensity that makes my heart skip a beat. The door closes behind him, his presence making the air crackle with electricity. Flames lick up my spine, setting my skin alight.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. “But you haven’t been bred yet.”

A shiver of anticipation settles between my legs as he closes the distance, towering over me from behind. As he reaches for the straps of the dress, I pull back and raise a palm.

“Not like this. I want you naked,” I say, my voice breathy.

When we were together, the most I’d ever seen of him was in a bathing suit back before he became so muscular. After we married, through all those daily breeding sessions, I still never saw him undressed.

He pauses, considering my request for several heartbeats, then nods. His fingers move to his tie, loosening it with deliberate slowness, his gaze never leaving mine.

Breath catching, my throat tightens as the fabric of his jacket whispers to the floor. Benito’s body radiates heat, even across the few inches that separate us, pulling me closer like gravity.

He moves onto his belt and then drops his pants. I glance down at the cock straining through his silk boxers and moan. Benito toes off his shoes, climbs out of his pants, his muscles shifting beneath his skin. All I can do is stare. The raw power in his body, the way his confidence radiates with every step closer to being bare—it’s intoxicating.

Then he stops.

I step forward, reaching for the placket of his shirt, wanting to be the one to reveal what’s beneath. My fingers tremble as I undo each button, my heart pounding harder with every exposed inch of olive skin.

When the shirt falls open, I find a tattoo over his heart. The name, GINEVRA, written in elaborate, flowing script, is surrounded by green vines and roses the exact shade of my hair.

Tears sting my eyes, and a fist clenches my heart. I trace the intricate lines of my name across his skin, over the vines and roses weaving together like the life we always planned. Thistattoo is more than just ink. It represents the years we lost, the pain I caused when I left.

“When did you get it?” I whisper, my heart splitting open, wondering if he was in agony the day he sat down to brand his skin with my memory.

He remains silent, his gaze unreadable, and the weight of his stare hits me like a punch. I thought I’d destroyed us. I thought the love we had was gone, replaced by resentment. But he’s carried me over his heart, through every moment of our separation. He’s marked himself with my name, a reminder of what I threw away.

My vision blurs. Guilt and regret gather at the base of my throat, and I swallow. Hot tears spill down my cheeks, and I press my palm to his chest.

“I’m so sorry for hurting you,” I say, my voice cracking.

Memories of our life together flood my mind—the nights we spent on the sofa, talking until dawn, the quiet mornings with his arms wrapped around my waist, his gentle laugh, the way he looked at me like I was his entire world.

The air feels too thick to breathe, my chest tightening with emotions I can’t name. Words jam in my throat, useless against the flood of feelings breaking loose. My fingers still resting over his heart twitch in sync with the rhythm of my pulse—desperate, frantic, erratic.

I can’t convey the storm raging beneath my skin. The love, the loss, the longing—it’s all tangled up in a knot I can’t untie. I want to tell him everything, but all I manage is a shaky breath, my body trembling with the weight of everything I’ve left unsaid. It’s overwhelming, unbearable, and yet I can’t pull away from him. I never want to let him go.

“Benito, I missed you every day. Every single day,” I say.

All the letters I never sent, the times I nearly called him but didn’t. I thought a clean break would be kinder, but standing here, seeing evidence of his love, proves me wrong.

“Benito,” I rasp. “You’ve got to believe me. I regretted it the moment I left.”

He leans down and silences me with a kiss.

SEVENTY-FIVE

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