Page 22 of Twisted Devotion

“Wait,” I say.

She looks at me, confusion flickering in her eyes.

I don’t give her a chance to argue. In one swift motion, I scoop her into my arms, holding her bridal style.

“What… what are you doing?” she snaps, squirming in my arms.

Her movements don’t even budge me one inch. “Carrying my bride,” I say, my tone laced with mockery. “It’s tradition, isn’t it?”

“Put me down!” she demands, pushing against my chest with frantic force. I know it probably feels like she’s shoving a wall, but she tries again and again.

I lean closer, our faces inches apart. “Or I could take you back to that room and let you socialize with the men and women in there. Isn’t that your specialty?”

Her movements are still. I feel her breath catch, her body stiffening in my arms.

“Good girl,” I murmur, and her cheeks flush.

Probably from anger.

I carry her up the stairs, her weight barely registering. She should smell like fire and danger, but I catch a faint whiff of that tempting vanilla scent again. My cock twitches, but I try to ignore the damn thing.

However, every step I take to the room stretches longer than it should. She doesn’t look at me. Her head is turned away, her body rigid like she’s bracing for some invisible attack.

But the softness of her body is making me feel all sorts of things. That day on the balcony, I never thought I’d get to be this close to her. And now? Now she’s my wife. If I wanted to, I could drop her on this staircase, spread her legs as wide as they can go, and fuck her till that fire in her eyes burns out.

I kick the door open when we reach the room and step inside. The space is dimly lit, the bedside lamp's soft glow illuminating the silk sheets' sheen. I move to the bed and lower her down carefully.

She sits up immediately, her back straight, her hands clutching the edge of the mattress. Yet, she doesn’t speak. Her silence is unnerving.

“Come on now,Bambina,” I say, crossing my arms, “That’s no way to look at your husband. Didn’t mummy teach you any manners?”

Even that doesn’t elicit a response. She looks down, her lashes shadowing her expression.

Her chest rises and falls in steady breaths, but her hands betray her—they tremble slightly, even as she grips the fabric of her dress. Her hair has begun to come loose from the elegant style she had earlier. She appears smaller like this—not fragile but contained. Like she’s holding every part of herself together with sheer will.

“You okay?” I ask after a pause.

Her head snaps up, and she glares at me. She still doesn’t speak, she just stares as if she wants to burn a hole through me.

“Adattati a te stesso,” I mutter under my breath, telling her to suit herself, as I start unbuttoning my shirt.

My shoulders ache, and the day's tension is catching up to me. Plus, I haven’t fully healed from my gunshot wound. All I want is to get out of these clothes and rest.

But she moves.

The second my hands go to unbutton my shirt, she bolts. She’s fast, but I’m quicker. Before she reaches the door, I catch her arm and pull her back.

“Where do you think you’re going?” I say, holding her firm enough to leave a mark.

She twists in my hold. “Let me go!”

“Go where exactly,Bambina,” I ask, genuinely confused. “Do you think if you walk out of here and run to your brother, he’ll take you home?”

She struggles against me, and I tighten my grip on her hand, not even concerned if it leaves a bruise. It’s just a little pain compared to the life her brother thrust her into. “No, Aria,” I reply to myself, “He’d bring you back here himself because, to him, you’re nothing but a beautiful whore with nice tits that gets him the information he wants. And you’ve played your role well so far. So what the fuck is your problem now?”

Aria stops struggling.

Then, she spits in my face.

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