Page 31 of Mafia Daddy's Christmas Bride
"But you said?—"
"I said you could have the bed. I never promised to sleep elsewhere." The mattress shifts as he settles in. "It's been a long day."
"You can't sleep here." I scoot as far to my edge as possible without falling off.
"It's my bed, Isabella." There's no anger in his tone, just a simple statement of fact. "My house. My rules."
"So what, you're just going to?—"
"I'm not going to touch you." He cuts me off, voice low and steady. "That wasn't part of our arrangement."
I sit up, fumbling to turn on the bedside lamp. When light floods the room, Roman's lying there with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
He's shirtless, and I catch myself noticing the tattoos across his chest before looking away.
"Why not?" The words tumble out without thought. "What's wrong with me?"
He turns his head slowly, one eyebrow raised in what might be amusement or confusion.
I immediately regret the question.
What am I doing?
This man works for the family I believe murdered my mother. The last thing I should care about is whether he finds me attractive.
"Nothing's wrong with you," he says finally. "But I don't force myself on women. Especially not ones who think I'm a murderer."
I feel my face flush hot with embarrassment. My thoughts are a chaotic mess. “Whatever.”
Roman shifts onto his side, facing me. "Wait a minute." His voice has a dangerous edge of amusement. "Did you just sounddisappointed that I'm not planning to fuck you? The woman who was ready to run away rather than marry me?"
"No!" I snap, too quickly. "That's ridiculous."
"Is it?" His dark eyes study me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. "Because it sounded like you were questioning why I wouldn't want to."
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out.
The truth is, I don't understand my own reaction.
This man represents everything I've been fighting against—the violence, the family business, the world that took my mother.
Yet here I am, somehow insulted that he's keeping his distance.
"You're imagining things," I mutter, reaching for the lamp.
"If you say so, Isabella." My name rolls off his tongue like he's tasting it, and something flutters in my stomach.
I click off the light and pull the covers up to my chin. "Goodnight, Roman." I make my voice as cold and dismissive as possible.
Behind me, I hear a low chuckle. "Running away again? That seems to be your specialty."
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself not to respond. The mattress shifts as he settles back, and I lie there rigidly, acutely aware of every inch of space between us.
What have I gotten myself into? And why does this dangerous man's opinion of me matter at all?
I lie awake long after Roman's breathing deepens into sleep. The ceiling above me blurs as tears well in my eyes.
How did I end up here, married to a murderer, trapped in a life I've desperately tried to escape?
