Page 34 of Mafia Daddy's Christmas Bride
"So this is what, a challenge for you?"
"No. It's about recognizing that you're a person, not just a problem to be solved or contained."
Something warm unfurls in my chest at his words.
It's been so long since anyone has seen me as more than a daughter to be controlled or a traitor to be punished.
"Look, this situation isn't ideal for either of us," he says. "But we're stuck with it for now. Doesn't mean you have to be miserable."
"What's the catch?" I ask, still suspicious.
"The catch is you stop trying to run away or contact the FBI." His eyes harden slightly. "You focus on your designs, help with Angelica, and work with me to figure out what really happened to your mother."
I should dismiss the idea immediately.
This man is still my captor, no matter how he tries to dress it up.
But the thought of reconnecting with my designs, of creating again, it's like offering water to someone dying of thirst.
"I'll think about it," I say, unwilling to commit but unable to reject the possibility outright.
In the silence that follows, I realize I'm seeing glimpses of a man far more complex than I imagined.
The enforcer who tucks his daughter in at night.
The captor who wants his prisoner to pursue her dreams.
The man who acknowledges my pain instead of dismissing it.
It would be easier if he were the monster I expected. This Roman, thoughtful, perceptive, almost kind, is far more dangerous to my resolve.
I drift into sleep with my mind full of contradictions. Anger at my situation wars with unexpected comfort from Roman's words.
The transition from wakefulness to dreams is seamless, and suddenly, I'm no longer in his bed but in my old design studio.
Sunlight streams through tall windows, illuminating my workstation. I'm sketching something, the pencil moving with purpose across the page. I feel a presence behind me, warm and solid.
"That's beautiful." Roman's voice rumbles close to my ear, his breath tickling my neck.
In my dream, I don't flinch away. Instead, I lean back against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. "It's not finished yet."
His hands slide down my arms, coming to rest on my waist. "I wasn't talking about the design."
I turn in his arms, the sketch forgotten. This dream-Roman looks at me with hunger in his eyes, raw and wanting.
"I thought you weren't interested," I say.
"I never said that." His fingers trace my jawline, sending shivers down my spine. "I said I wouldn't force you."
When his lips meet mine, it's nothing like our wedding kiss. It's heat and need and something deeper I can't name.
My hands find their way under his shirt, exploring the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of muscle.
"Isabella," he breathes against my mouth, and the sound of my name ignites something inside me.
In the logic-free world of dreams, we're suddenly on a bed with silken sheets and pillows everywhere.
His weight above me feels right, protective rather than threatening.
