Page 19 of Claimed By the Enemy
“Right,” I say, trying to salvage what’s left of my dignity. “Of course.”
I turn and walk up the stairs without looking back, but I can feel his eyes on me the entire way.
Chapter Six
Sophie
Sunlight slices through the curtains like a knife, and I groan, pressing my face deeper into the pillow. My head feels like someone took a sledgehammer to it, but that’s not the worst part.
No, the worst part is that I remember everything.
Every word I said to Dom last night. Every breath between us before that kiss. Every moment of weakness where I admitted that I want him despite everything logic and sixteen years of training tell me.
“I shouldn’t want this. Shouldn’t want you.”
Christ. I actually said that. Out loud. To his face.
I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling while shame burns through my chest. Years of careful planning, and I let a few drinks and some heated words unravel everything.
Uncle Enzo would be disappointed. All those years of training, of drilling into my head that emotions were weakness, that the mission came before everything else. And here I am, married to the enemy and confessing my attraction to him like some lovesick teenager.
“Fuck,” I mutter, throwing an arm over my eyes.
I can’t afford to forget who he is, what his family did to mine. The ring on my finger might be real, but everything else about this marriage is a lie designed to serve his purposes, not mine.
A soft knock interrupts my self-loathing session. “Come in.”
Patrice enters with her usual morning smile, though there’s something careful about her expression today. “Good morning, Mrs. Moretti. I have coffee and some messages from Mr. Domenico.”
I sit up, accepting the coffee gratefully. “Let me guess. More rules for his prisoner wife?”
“Actually…” Patrice reaches into her apron and produces a sleek black credit card. “He wanted you to have this. For shopping.”
I take the card, turning it over in my hands. No limit listed, which probably means it doesn’t have one. “Shopping for what?”
“Mr. Domenico is hosting an event here tonight”. A small gathering of his business associates and friends.” Patrice’s voice grows more cautious. “He thought you might need something appropriate to wear.”
An event. Tonight. In the house. With zero advance notice.
Of course. This is exactly what Dom does—pulls these impromptu moves designed to throw me off balance. When I worked for him, it was business trips with impossible deadlines,surprise meetings with dangerous contacts. Now it’s last-minute social events where I’ll be paraded around like a prize he’s won.
“He also said to remind you…” Patrice hesitates, clearly uncomfortable with whatever she’s about to relay.
“What?”
“That you should remember what will happen if you try to run away.”
Ice floods my veins.
“Of course he did.” I drain half the coffee in one burning gulp. “And the driver?”
“At your disposal all day.”
I study Patrice’s face, seeing genuine sympathy there. She knows this isn’t a normal marriage, even if she doesn’t understand the full scope of the dysfunction.
“Well then,” I say, setting down the empty cup with deliberate calm. “I suppose I should go shopping.”
If Dom thinks he can control me with credit cards and threats, he’s about to learn otherwise.
