Page 14 of The Proposal

After my mother’s death, Lucia and I became his live-in housekeepers.

My eyes track his every move. This man is such a conundrum. He swipes the vial of blood off the bed next and moves back into the bathroom.

This has me leaping to my feet. Is he going to destroy it out of petty spite?

I stop in the doorway when I see him standing by the basin. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“What does it look like?” he grumbles in reply.

He removes the top from the vial, grabs a glass off the countertop, and empties a small amount of blood inside.

“Whose blood is that?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does if you murdered someone to get it.”

This has him pinning me with a glare in the mirror. “It’s mine,” he deadpans.

“Ah, okay.”

Ignoring me, he returns to what he’s doing by adding a small amount of water to the blood and stirring it with the tip of his finger.

“Why did you add water?”

He blows out an exasperated breath. “Because virginal blood is usually mixed with other bodily fluids.”

“It sounds like you’re an expert,” I spit as a wave of jealousy I can’t quite explain rises inside me.

His gaze locks with mine again. “What?”

“You’ve obviously deflowered a lot of women in the past.” I’m not sure why I care about this, but for some reason, I do. “Are virgins your specialty?”

“No, I like my women seasoned,” he says matter-of-factly, his tone cool, like he’s stating a preference for wine or weather. “I only know this because I researched it online. If there’s one thing I am, it’s thorough. I don’t go into anything half-cocked. My reputation is on the line here, and your father is no fool. I don’t like to deceive people … not unless I have to.”

“Oh.”

He brushes past me, so I turn in that direction. He pulls back the top sheet and places one knee on the mattress, leaning towards the middle of the bed.

A dark-red stain starts spreading, lightening as the water dilutes it. Leaving it with blurred edges and a mottled, uneven appearance.

When he’s done, Dante stands back with a satisfied, smug grin, admiring his handiwork. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed.

I can’t believe he’s gone to such lengths for me. I just presumed that most men would take their liberties with theirwives on their wedding night, whether it was freely offered or not.

I guess I was wrong.

My eyes travel down the length of his body, but when they reach the junction of his thighs … namely, the prominent bulge hiding behind the tight white fabric of his underwear—which leaves nothing to the imagination—I get that same tingling feeling below.

It’s disconcerting, so I do the only thing I can: I divert my gaze.

He returns to the bathroom and rinses the glass, placing it back on the countertop. The empty vial goes into the small front pocket of his suitcase, which sits beside the dresser.

When he returns to the bed, I find myself asking, “What are you doing now?”

“Going to sleep. Don’t worry, I’ll stick to my side of the bed.”

“Could you help me with the hooks and eyes at the back of my dress? I can’t reach them on my own.”

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