Page 17 of Brutal Union
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Marco's eyes flick to me but he doesn't stop me from checking it.
Alice:Val, are you okay? Dad won't tell me anything. Says you're on your honeymoon but I know that's not true.
My throat tightens. My baby sister, probably terrified, definitely confused. My fingers hover over the keyboard.
"Answer her," Marco says, reading my hesitation. "Tell her you're fine."
"Am I allowed?"
"She's your sister. Family matters to Rosettis." His hand tightens slightly on my thigh. "But choose your words carefully. I'll be reading over your shoulder."
I type slowly, aware of his eyes on the screen:I'm okay. Different situation than planned but I'm safe.
Alice:Where are you? Can I see you?
"Tell her no," Marco instructs.
Me:Soon.
Alice:Val, you're scaring me. Is this about the Irish? About Liam?
My fingers freeze. Marco takes the phone from my hand, types something, and hands it back. He's written:Liam's not a problem anymore. Focus on your studies. I love you.
"Send it," he commands softly.
I hit send, hating how the truth wrapped in lies sounds exactly like something I'd write. Three dots appear immediately—Alice typing—but Marco powers off my phone.
"She's safe as long as you behave," he reminds me. "Remember that when you think about rebellion."
Back in the penthouse, I stand surrounded by shopping bags worth a fortune.
The red gown catches the light, silk gleaming like fresh blood. I should burn it. Should destroy everything he bought, refuse to wear a single piece. But my fingers trace the fabric, remembering the hunger in his eyes when I emerged in it, the way his control cracked for just a moment.
"That one looked best," Marco says from the doorway. He's removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, looking devastatingly casual. The way the white shirt stretches across his chest makes my mouth go dry. "You'll wear it to Sunday dinner."
"I don't want it." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
"Liar." He moves closer, and I hate how my body immediately responds, nipples sensitive, pulse jumping. "You want to wear it. Want to see that look in my eyes again, that moment when my control almost broke."
"You're delusional."
"You're losing, principessa." He stops just out of reach, but his presence fills the room, makes my skin prickle with awareness. "Every day, you lose a little more ground. Your bodyhas already surrendered. It's just waiting for your mind to accept defeat."
He moves to where I'm holding the red dress, his fingers trailing over the silk with the same possessive touch he uses on my skin. The gesture makes my breath catch, imagining those hands on me instead of the fabric.
"Sunday's dinner is in three days." He turns back to me, and the look in his eyes makes my knees weak. Dark promise mixed with barely contained hunger. "When you wear this…"
He crosses to me in two strides, backing me against the wall. His hand braces beside my head, body caging mine without quite touching. I can feel the heat radiating off him, smell his cologne mixing with something uniquely him: raw masculinity.
"When you wear this," he continues, voice dropping to that gravelly tone that haunts my dreams, "every man at that table will know exactly who you belong to. Every woman will see what I've claimed. And principessa…"
His free hand comes up, thumb barely grazing my bottom lip. The touch is feather-light but might as well be a brand for how it burns. "I won't be the only one whose control breaks."
The threat, or promise, hangs between us, electric and dangerous. His eyes drop to my mouth, and for one breathless moment, I think he's going to kiss me. My traitorous body yearns for it, lips parting slightly, back arching just enough to brush my breasts against his chest.
But he steps back, that infuriating control sliding back into place even as I see his hands flex with the effort of not touching me. The loss of his heat leaves me cold and aching.
"Three days," he says, heading for the door. "Try not to touch yourself too much thinking about it. I want you desperate when the time comes."
