Page 33 of Brutal Union
"I'm right." My free hand finds her waist, pulls her against me so she feels how hard I am. "And tomorrow, when I send you out again with more freedom, you'll come home even faster. Because each day, you need this more."
Her hands press against my chest, but she doesn't push. "This isn't healthy."
"Nothing about us is healthy." I release her throat, watching her lean back against the bookshelf, breathing hard. "But it's real. And it's ours."
She looks up at me, lips parted, eyes dark with the same need that's been eating me alive for three weeks. The moment stretches between us, electric and inevitable. I lean in, closeenough that our breath mingles, close enough that she can taste what's coming. Her eyes flutter closed, her chin tilts up, offering her mouth like the surrender I've been waiting for.
"Marco." My name on her lips, half plea, half prayer.
My mouth is an inch from hers when my phone vibrates against my chest. I ignore it, focused only on the heat between us, the way her body arches toward mine. But it vibrates again. And again. The emergency pattern only my family uses.
"Don't," she whispers when I pull back slightly.
The phone continues its insistent buzz. I pull it out, ready to destroy whoever's interrupting, when I see Luca's text.
"Her father just made an announcement. Check the Tribune site. Now."
I open the link with one hand, the other still pressed against the bookshelf beside Valentina's head. The headline loads, and my blood turns to ice.
"BERNARDI HEIRESS TO WED O'BRIEN SON: Alliance Strengthens Despite Recent Setback"
Below is a photo of Alice Bernardi, looking young and terrified, standing beside Patrick O'Brien's youngest son, Christopher. The same son with a reputation for breaking his toys.
Valentina must see something in my face because her arousal shifts to concern. "What is it?"
I turn the phone to show her. Watch the color drain from her face as she reads. Her legs give out, and I catch her before she falls, holding her against me as she processes what this means.
"No," she breathes. "He promised. If I married, if I didn't fight, he promised Alice would be safe."
"Your father's a businessman," I say, voice carefully controlled despite the rage building in my chest. "He found another daughter to trade."
She grabs her phone and dials her sister’s number, looking frantic. I let her. But she just shakes her head and turns it off, eyes glistening.
“Let me guess,” I say. “Call didn’t go through.”
"Alice is nineteen." Her voice cracks. "She still believes in love. Still thinks she might choose her own life. And Christopher O'Brien…" She shudders.
"I know what he does to women."
She pulls back to look at me, tears streaming down her face. "You know? Then you know what will happen to my sister. What he'll do to her."
"It's not my problem."
The slap catches me off guard, her palm cracking across my face hard enough to snap my head to the side. We both freeze, the violence hanging between us like a loaded gun.
"Not your problem?" Her voice rises. "You stole me to prevent my father's alliance with the Irish. You started this war. And now my baby sister will pay the price."
I touch my jaw where her hand connected, taste copper where my teeth cut my cheek. Any other person would be dead for striking me. But looking at her now, fury and grief warring in her eyes, I only want her more.
"You came home to me," I remind her, voice soft and dangerous. "Chose me over freedom. Was that just about protecting Alice? Or was there more?"
She laughs, bitter and broken. "Does it matter? I chose you, and Father's selling her anyway. My sacrifice meant nothing."
"Your sacrifice meant everything." I crowd her against the bookshelf again, hands on either side of her head. "You're mine now. Under my protection. That means something."
"But not Alice."
"Alice isn't my wife."
