Chapter 13

THIRTEEN

Sabella

At home, I charge the phone, switch it off, and look for a hiding place. I settle on the air vent in the lounge. It's easy enough to unscrew the cover. As it will take too much time to put the screws back after each time I use the phone, I clip the cover back in place and shove the screws into the back of a drawer in the kitchen.

My hands shake a little when I'm done. I'm both ecstatic and scared about finally having a phone at my disposal that's not limited to my husband's number. If Angelo finds out, I don't even want to think what he'll do. Roch took a huge risk. Of course, if it ever comes out—heaven forbid—I'm not going to tell Angelo who gave me the phone.

The burner phone functions with a pay-as-you-go system. It's not on contract. I can't call or text internationally, so contacting my family is out of the question. But I can communicate with the people in town and let my friends know when I can't make it to the village to fulfill my casual jobs. I'll use the money Roch preloaded sparingly. As I earn more money, I can buy prepaid phone cards to top up my call time.

I never take the phone Angelo gave me with me when I go to the village because I'm scared he's tracking it. I always make sure it's charged, but I keep it in the nightstand drawer. Carrying Roch's phone on me will be a big reassurance.

The next day, when I'm in the village, I save Antoinette, Corinne, Mrs. Campana, and Mr. Martin's numbers on the new phone. They're so consumed with yesterday's news that no one asks where or why I finally got a phone. Everyone is talking about how Angelo saved that puppy. There's even an article in the local newspaper. Someone snapped a cell phone photo of Angelo returning the drenched puppy to its owner. It's published with the headline, Local patron saves puppy from drowning, on the front page.

At the market on the square where I do the weekly shopping for Corinne, I overhear my husband's name as I'm filling a basket with oranges. I turn my head in the direction of the voice. Three women sit on a bench under a plane tree with their backs turned to me.

A woman with blond, shoulder-length hair says, "Oh, he can drip all over my floor any time he wants. He's such a hot dish, not to mention that dangerous vibe he's got going. I bet he's a stallion in bed."

I clench my fingers around the handle of the basket in my hand, feeling like throwing an orange at the back of her head. Preferably a rotten one.

"Pff," a woman with short black hair says. "That doesn't change who he is or where he comes from. Under the sexy veneer, he's still a criminal and nothing but filthy scum."

My hackles rise. There are layers to him she doesn't understand, not that I'm defending him.

The third woman, a petite brunette, says, "He's the kind of trouble we don't need in this town."

The blonde crosses her legs. "I'd still like to test-drive him. All that testosterone makes me sweaty."

"You're despicable," the brunette replies with a chuckle.

The woman with the black hair clicks her tongue. "Unfortunately for you, you're married."

"So?" the blonde says. "I said test-drive, not buy."

Urgh. I can't listen to more.

Turning away from the conversation, I pay for the oranges and hurry to the cheese vendor on the opposite side of the square. I'm no longer in earshot of the women's conversation, but their words refuse to let me go. It's the truth, yet I hate both their interest and their judgment. The fact that I couldn't confront them for fear of exposing myself only makes me feel worse.

For the rest of the day, I keep busy by cleaning the house from top to bottom. A few times, I almost give in and send a text message from Angelo's phone to ask how the kids are doing, but my pride prevents me. Sooner or later, my husband will visit to collect his due.

A strange kind of anxiety takes hold of me as I wait for Angelo to arrive, but he only pulls up in front of the house two evenings later. I part the blinds in front of the window in the lounge and peer through the glass. The path lights illuminate the garden. He gets out of the car, wearing a dark bespoke suit and a white shirt like when he dived into the river. The clothes fit him well. The tailored cut makes him look both powerful and at ease in his own skin. When he makes his way down the path with long, easy strides, I drop the blinds and undress. By the time his key is scraping in the lock, I'm naked and kneeling with my legs spread.

He pushes the door open and pauses as his gaze lands on me. For the two seconds he stands motionless, cold air enters from outside. Goosebumps run over my skin, and my nipples contract. An internal battle wages inside me. I want to remain detached, but after the puppy incident, it's difficult.

I admire what he did. If not for him, that poor puppy would've drowned. If I'm honest, I'll admit it's more than admiration that threatens to stir up the feelings I suppress. It's also jealousy. It's remembering how that woman looked at him when he returned her puppy. More than anything, it's the satisfaction at how he rejected her. It's the female in me who wants my husband to be faithful. Our marriage is in no way normal. I have no right to crave the traditional values that comes with holy matrimony. The bond of our marriage is nothing but a weapon in Angelo's hands. It's just another tool he can use to tie me to him. Then why do I want him to honor his vow? Because I'm every bit as possessive as he is. It's not easy to admit. Forcing nothingness into my heart becomes near impossible when I'm acknowledging these feelings.

I lower my head before he sees the turmoil he creates inside me. The click of the door announces he's closed it. The cold that disappears confirms it. His steps fall with a slow beat on the floor. His polished dress shoes enter my line of vision. He stops between my legs. Too close. He brushes a hand over my head and grips my ponytail. With a gentle tug, he lifts my face. My eyes are on the level of his crotch. The bulge in his pants tells me he wants me, but when he opens his mouth, his confused tone says otherwise.

"Look at me, Sabella."

I lift my gaze to his. His handsome features are set in hard lines. The turbulent emotions warring in my chest are reflected in the dark, bitter brown of his eyes.

Twisting my ponytail around his fist, he says, "I want this war to be over."

I can only assume he means the animosity between us. "Then maybe you shouldn't have started it."

His voice is clipped. "I had no choice." Reeling me in with my hair twisted around his hand, he unzips himself with the other. "I had to steal your father's book."

My mouth opens on a silent gasp. That wasn't what I imagined. Obviously, for him, our war goes back all the way to the beginning. Before I have time to gather my thoughts, he's freed his cock. He takes advantage of my parted lips to shove inside, aiming straight for the back of my throat.

I gag.

He pulls halfway out and slides back in over my tongue. "It was the only way to ensure our wedding would continue as planned." Filling me with his hardness, he pushes so deep I don't have a choice but to swallow around him. "The only way to make you mine."

I'm choking, too driven by my primal need for survival to digest the information he just shared.

"You were always the only objective that mattered." He pulls out and lets me breathe. "I wish there was another way, but there wasn't."

I drag in a ragged breath, trying to get my head around the meaning of his words, but he's already pumping through my lips and using his grip on my hair to control my movements and make me meet his thrusts.

Tears leak from my eyes. Saliva runs down my chin. The sounds I make are needy, and despite the armor I pulled up around my heart, my folds swell and turn slick with arousal. The ache between my legs is overwhelming, robbing me of any other thoughts, but I'm fighting, fighting not to let this turn me on and fighting through the fog of lust to understand his declaration.

"For you," he says, fucking my mouth harder. "I did it all for you."

I grab his thighs for purchase, hugging his legs instead of pushing him away. Holding on instead of letting go.

He tilts his hips and pushes my face against his groin, making me swallow everything. My throat feels raw. My mouth stretches so wide to accommodate him I swear the corners must tear. I focus on inhaling through my nose, but the intrusion in my throat prevents the air from reaching my lungs. My throat convulses, milking his cock. He grunts and holds me to him, uttering words of praise and encouragement, but I'm no longer listening.

White spots dance in my vision. Like him, I'm tired of fighting this war, and as I cling to him and give in to exhaustion, I get a glimpse of how easy it will be to give up. How sweet it will taste to let go. To drift in a darkness, a warm and comfortable place that's free of obligations and judgement. I let it take me, sinking deeper, and it feels so good to no longer be tired. No longer tense. To swallow his cum.

I'm in my happy place. Water. I don't want to surface. It's soothing under the rigid line that separates the sky from the sea. The rigid line of right and wrong. Of honoring my family and my dad's memory or loving a man. No, not a man. A monster. My dark angel. But with only the soft gushing of the current in my ears and the gentle rocking of the tide, I don't have to think anymore. I don't have to choose between hate and love.

The rocking turns more insistent, the tide growing stronger. I moan in protest. The sand beneath me is hard instead of soft, and when I lift my hands, the sun is warm beneath my palms. My body follows the rhythm of that slipstream. A wave builds around me, pulling me to the shore.

"No."

I don't want to surface. I want to hold my breath. I want to stay under the water forever. I want to inhale the saline darkness and grow fins like a fish, but the persistent need that builds in my core is like a tether that ties me to the land. The pleasure pulls my body tighter. It lifts me closer to the sun. It draws me into strong arms and coaxes me into moving to that intoxicating rhythm.

"That's it, cara," the water says, sweeping me farther and faster along. "Come with me."

So I go. I let it carry me to the break where the eager waves crush and maul. I let it drag me under and bend my body, and when the swell lifts and lifts and finally curls, I crash on land. The sea spits me out, forcing me to breathe. The light that filters through my eyelids as I peel them open isn't the daylight on a beach baked warm by the sun. It's the overhead light in the lounge. The heat surrounding me isn't a perfect summer's day. It's my water. My husband.

"Cara," he whispers.

He lowers his head and kisses my lips, bringing me slowly from the forgiving darkness to a cruel reality. He's naked, spread out on top of me on the floor, cushioning my head with one hand while rubbing aftershocks from my clit with the other. I go slack, giving over to pleasure and disappointment. My body betrayed me, and so did my mind.

"Look at me," he demands.

I try to focus my eyes.

"That's better," he croons. "You had me worried there for a moment."

My throat hurts when I speak. "About what?"

"That I've gone too far."

"Haven't we?" I ask, biting my lip, and I don't mean what just happened. I mean everything.

He stills. His touch vanishes. He pulls his hand from between our bodies and carries his weight on his arm. His dark hair falls over his forehead, the wavy curls messy. His chiseled jaw hardens even as insecurity shimmers in the harsh brown of his eyes. The black ink on his hard chest draws a stark picture of the man who holds my fate in his hands. The permanent art is an exact representation of the man who owns me.

Holding my gaze, he says, "I want to stop being on my guard around you. I don't want to feel as if I'm walking onto a battlefield every time I enter this house." He pauses. "I want to end the bloodshed between our families. We both suffered by the hands of our fathers and the bad decisions they made."

Bad decisions. All those deaths. His mother and sister. My dad. How did we get here? Angelo's words come back to me.

I had no choice.

I had to steal your father's book.

It was the only way to ensure our wedding would continue as planned.

The only way to make you mine.

Our war didn't start when he married me with a gun pushed against my head. It happened long before then. It began when he stole that book. And just like that, the implication of his words stares me in the face.

You were always the only objective that mattered.

Angelo didn't steal the book because he wanted my dad to honor a business contract. He stole the book because he wanted me.

The words tumble from my lips in a shocked whisper. "You blackmailed my dad to let you marry me. The business you took from him was just a secondary advantage. By taking his source of money away, you made him powerless."

He cups my cheek in a tender caress even as his eyes harden like gleaming onyx. "I took the book to ensure your father would honor the promise he made when he negotiated our betrothal. You see, bella, my war started a long time before I stole that book. It started the minute I learned you were mine."

Something twists inside my chest. The statement should soothe me, but it doesn't, because he just told me in not so many words that he didn't want me because he fell in love with me. I was a commodity from the very start. A currency. It's never been about me. His cock is not yet soft inside me when the bitter truth settles in my heart.

It's always been about getting his due.

I clench my jaw and press on his chest. "It's always been about money and business."

Gripping my wrists, he pins them on the floor next to my face. "It's always been about knowing you were destined to be mine."

"You didn't even know me," I exclaim. "You didn't do it for me. You did it for what you could gain from a marriage to Ben Edwards's daughter."

"You're not listening to me. Everything I did was for you."

"Why go to such lengths for a girl you haven't even met? I could've repulsed you." I swallow a breath. "For all I know, I did."

"It doesn't matter that I didn't know you. I accepted you from the moment your father agreed to give me your hand in marriage. You didn't repulse me. Not then and not now. Quite the contrary. And even if you were as ugly as a witch with a hunchback and a mole on her nose, you still would've been mine. I would've accepted you and cared for you no differently."

I can't wrap my mind around his reasoning. That kind of blind devotion doesn't make sense. "Then why did you leave early that night of my party?"

"My dad was sick," he says. "He had lung cancer."

A gasp catches in my throat. "I didn't know."

"He didn't want anyone to know. He saw it as a weakness."

"I thought…"

"That I left because I didn't find you likable or desirable? No, cara. Nothing can be further from the truth. Everyone was so pretentious in their fine attire and with their masks in place. Your sister was the perfect portrait of politeness in her prim and proper dress. Your mother was set on showing off your money, worried about everyone's impression and judgement of the party. Then you arrived drenched in sea and salt with your see-through shirt plastered to your perfect body, and all you wanted for your birthday was that skinny little kitten."

My heart contracts at the mention of Pirate.

"You were the only real person there," he continues. "That's when I knew how lucky I was. I wanted you even if you were only sixteen. The two years I waited for you to turn eighteen were the longest of my life. But you were mine already the first time I met you. You've been mine ever since, and you will always be mine. Once I laid my eyes on you, I couldn't let you go. I did what was necessary to keep you, and I'll do so until my dying day."

At a loss for words, I can only stare at him.

He releases my wrists and cups my face, his expression both tender and tormented. Adoring and resentful. He looks at me with those opposites reflected in the depth of his haunted black eyes that mirror the duality of his being.

Angel and demon.

Kindness and cruelty.

The man I love and hate.

"The problem is, Sabella, I've always accepted you as my fate. You, on the other hand, have never chosen me, not after you'd gotten to know who I really am."

He lifts off me, breaking our connection. There's no cum to run between my legs, nothing for him to look at, because he's kept his word in using condoms.

I open my mouth, but no words form on my lips.

Because I can't lie to him.

Because he's right.

After I got to know the true Angelo Russo, he's never been my choice.