Chapter 31

THIRTY-ONE

Sabella

The police station is a cold and miserable place with lime-green doorframes and yellowed tiles. The interrogation room is freezing cold. I'm sure it's on purpose. So is the humiliating full body search that a female officer executes with surgical gloves and probing fingers.

She asks me to open my mouth before pushing down my tongue. Then she instructs me to bend over and touch my toes. I die a thousand deaths as she does a thorough feel-around in all my private places.

I'm shivering from cold and embarrassment when she's done. She tells me in a neutral tone to get dressed, watching me as I do so. Her gaze slides over me until I've tied my laces, her expression giving nothing away. No words are exchanged and no explanations offered. She simply grabs my arm and escorts me to another room with a metal table and two chairs. A camera that sits in the corner of the ceiling is pointed toward the table. One-sided glass forms a window in the back wall.

A guard enters and handcuffs me to the table. After securing my ankles with chains, they leave and shut the door.

For a long time, nothing happens. I'm alone, shivering with cold. I'm hurting both inside and outside. The hard seat of the wooden chair doesn't help. I breathe in and out, trying to still my violent trembling and to simply exist without thinking, but as I'm filling my lungs with the stale air that smells of urine and bleach, the time ticks by slowly, and nobody comes.

I know what they're doing. I know why they stripped me and searched me so thoroughly. I know why they're letting me sit here in the cold, chained to a table and the floor. They want to break me. They're hoping I'll cooperate when they finally come back for me, and I understand why.

The answer is Angelo Russo.

That's why they planted the drugs on me. I've been an idiot to give them my coat. It's a hard lesson, but one I learned well. I won't make the same stupid mistake again.

After what feels like hours, the door finally opens and the man who brought me here enters with a file in his hands. I watch him closely as he crosses the floor and takes a seat. His sympathetic look doesn't fool me. Underneath the surface, I sense his excitement.

He opens the file and studies the piece of paper that lies on top. "Mrs. Russo." He looks up from the paper and catches my gaze. "My name is Lieutenant Lavigne. I just got the report from the officer who searched you." He watches me with a penetrating stare. "The report states signs of abuse."

Not making it easy for him, I raise an eyebrow and wait.

"Marks on your body that indicate a beating," he says after a couple of seconds.

I tilt my head. "We've just been married."

"Exactly." He drops the paper and folds his hands on the table. "That doesn't seem very romantic."

"Yes, well, each to his own. We have different sexual preferences, if you know what I mean. Have you never tried spanking in the bedroom?" I shrug. "I suppose that's not your taste."

He stares at me for a long moment before speaking again. "I'm not a fool, Mrs. Russo. I know who Angelo Russo is and where he comes from." He leans back with a self-satisfied grin. "I also did a little search on you and where you are from. You come from a prestigious family with ties in high places. It seems very unlikely for someone of your standing to marry a person like Mr. Russo out of your own free will."

My laugh is nervous despite the confidence I'm striving for. "I don't think it's your job to make assumptions. Isn't your job gathering facts?"

He continues as if he hasn't heard me. "I'm going to offer you a way out. Give me information on Angelo Russo, any evidence that will help me to put him away, and all your problems will be solved. When he's behind bars, you can divorce him and go home."

Wow. I didn't expect him to be so direct. I suppose he has limited time. He must know Angelo is most probably trying to bail me out as we speak. Not because my husband cares about me. He just wants to make sure I don't talk.

He crosses his arms. "It's something to consider—your freedom."

If only he knew. I don't dare open my mouth. Ever. It won't bear well for Ryan or my family who are accomplices in murder. No, I'm stuck. I'm in this marriage for better or worse, for as long as I live, and judging by the way it's going, it's leaning toward the worse end of the scale.

"Mrs. Russo." He sighs. "I'm going to put Angelo Russo behind bars if it's the last thing I do. There are only two sides in this war. You better make sure you choose the right one. Silence makes you guilty too. When the time comes to lock him away for life, you don't want to share that sentence."

"Is that why you planted the drugs on me?" I ask, looking straight at the camera. "So that you could drag me down here to offer me a deal?"

He only smiles. "Take a little time to think about it." Leaning forward, he says in a tone soft enough not to be caught on the recording, "I'll be back for you."

The threat hangs between us, our breaths making white puffs as the words dissipate into the frigid air. The promise feels like a noose around my neck, and the rope is in Lieutenant Lavigne's hands. Is he bluffing? I can't get a read on him. There's no way of telling.

Taking a business card from the pocket of his padded jacket, he pins it with a finger on the table and slides it toward me. "That's my number. Memorize it. You can call me when you have an answer or information." He adds in a dark tone, "Or anytime you need my help."

I look from the card to his face. "Your help? After what you just did, what makes you think I'll ever trust you?"

"Your husband has a reputation. Let's just say he has an appetite for violence. You may need me sooner than you think."

I swallow at that, because he may be right. Only, I can never turn to him for help. I can't turn to anyone for that matter.

The door opens with a squeak. We both turn our heads that way. A tall man in a three-piece suit carrying a briefcase in his hand enters. His dark-blond hair and pale blue eyes remind me of Colin. My chest tightens at the thought of my friend and how I left him. I hope he's all right. I wish I could check on him. I wish I could call Ryan and make sure they're fine.

The newcomer glances briefly at me before settling his gaze on the lieutenant. "I'm Gervais Laurent, Mr. Russo's lawyer. I'll be representing Mrs. Russo. What are the charges?"

Lieutenant Lavigne faces me squarely, his signature smile curving his lips. "No charges." He adds with emphasis, "This time."

Mr. Laurent's manner is business-like. "Unlock her hands and feet. If Mrs. Russo has been maltreated, you'll hear from me again."

"Oh, she has," the lieutenant says. "But not by us."

Mr. Laurent ignores the comment. He waits for Lieutenant Lavigne to uncuff me and to remove the chains from my ankles. When I'm free, Mr. Laurent takes my arm and helps me to stand. I'm grateful for the support. My body is stiff after sitting for so long, and my legs are uncooperative. I feel cold and brittle from the lack of blood circulation, and by the time the lawyer guides me into the lobby of the station, my teeth are chattering.

The space is crowed with people, but Angelo immediately draws my gaze. He's a head taller than everyone, his black hair shining under the flickering lights. Even if he didn't stand out because of his height, the fury rolling off him in waves would've caught my attention. Quiet violence glimmers in the depths of his dark eyes.

The people clear a path as he comes toward me with long, powerful strides. He carries my coat in one hand and a travel mug in the other. His gaze drills into mine, a thousand turbulent emotions transmitted as he hands Mr. Laurent the mug and helps me to pull on the coat, but not a word is said. Not here. I understand that.

Angelo holds my gaze as he buttons up the coat. I don't make sense of all those emotions. I do however register the questions burning in his eyes.

Did I talk?

Did I break?

Did I betray him?

These questions are the only explanation for the cold, silent anger that pulsates around him.

He drapes an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into the warmth and protection of his body. Shielding me against him, he leads me outside as fast as my feet allow.

He stops on the pavement, takes the mug from Mr. Laurent, and puts it in my hand. "Chamomile tea with honey. It's warm."

I'm grateful for his foresight as I drink the hot, sweet tea. It warms my stomach, helping to dispel some of the cold. I'm thirsty and my throat is still sore. The relief when I swallow is instantaneous. Even though my pride doesn't want me to take any comfort from him, I'm too exhausted and frozen to argue with myself or to refuse.

I take small sips, trying to make the treat last as Angelo walks me to a waiting car. He opens the backdoor and helps me inside. The interior is warm. The engine is running, and the heater is on. A driver turns in his seat and greets me in French. I don't manage more than a nod.

Angelo shuts the door. He exchanges a few words with Mr. Laurent before coming around the car and getting in beside me. Once he's buckled first my safety belt and then his, the driver takes off.

I lean my head on the backrest and turn my face toward the window, noting the lights that blur into a continuous line as we speed toward the city, but I don't take in the sight. Not really.

"Sabella." Angelo grips my face, the fingers of his large hand splayed over my cheeks as he forces me to look at him. "Did you tell them anything?"

"You can relax." I sag deeper into the seat, exhaustion stealing over me. "You're safe."

The muscles in his jaw bunch, creating hollows under his high cheekbones in the shadows that play over his handsome features under the fast-shifting lights. Such a beautiful face. An angel's face. I can never forget he has the heart of a devil.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that," he says, brushing a thumb over my jaw. "I had no idea Lavigne was going to play that dirty."

"It's over."

I tremble when I think about the lie. It'll never be over. Not for me. Lieutenant Lavigne and Angelo have one thing in common. They're both determined. Neither of them is going to let me go. This is only the beginning. I try to pull free, but Angelo doesn't let me escape his touch or his piercing gaze.

Holding fast, he stares into my eyes. Too deeply. Seeing too much. "I should kill him." Then softer, more seriously, "I will."

Stiffening at the sound of that word on his lips, that single, small word that can decide a man's fate, I glance in the driver's direction. Angelo throws that threat around as if he's a god, as if it's his right to say who lives and who dies.

"Don't worry." Angelo finally sets me free. "He's on my payroll."

The driver, he means.

My face burns where his fingers branded me. "Nothing happened." I finish the last of the tea and stare through the window again. "Just let it go."

"Nothing?" Anger slips into his voice. "You call what happened to you nothing?"

"Please." I turn my face to him with a beseeching look. "I don't want to talk about it."

A muscle ticks in his temple, but he drops the subject. For now, at least.

We carry on driving deeper into the city. I can't even bring myself to ask him where we're going. At this point, it doesn't really matter. Anyway, I can change my destination as little as I can change my fate. What's waiting for me can't be worse than how my wedding day started and ended. My wedding night must be the worst night of my life, excluding that fatal early winter evening when Angelo killed my dad. But I can't think about that now. If I do, I'll break down, and I need to hold on to my strength, even if only for appearances. I don't want to show Angelo how shaken I am. He'll only exploit my weakness.

The driver pulls up in front of a luxury hotel. Angelo gets out and opens my door. He extends his hand, but I ignore the offer of assistance. Does he take no for an answer? Never. Not Angelo. That word doesn't exist in his vocabulary. Locking his fingers around my wrist, he helps me from the car whether I want him to or not.

A memory of the day we met flashes through my mind, how his eyes had flared when I'd said no to him. I should've known then, but I was young and inexperienced. Falling in love. Falling for the wrong man. That man took my heart, and he never returned it. There's no hope of ever getting it back, because the man I gave my love to is an illusion. The man who holds my affections in a beautiful prison constructed of never-ending pain is nothing but a pretty pretense. He's like a character from a book, and I'm the fool who bought into the story. I can never get back what I gave him, not my virtue and not my innocence. None of my firsts. Least of all my love. I gave that to a man who doesn't exist, and that's a bitter pill to swallow.

As I don't have a say, I simply let it happen, let things unfold. My control is limited, and the war stretches a lifetime ahead of me. I have to choose my battles wisely.

The coat he provided is warm, but I can't stop shivering. The frost inside me refuses to melt. While the driver takes two travel bags from the trunk, Angelo removes his own coat and hangs it over my shoulders too. His smell wraps around me like a favorite memory, cedar and citrus bringing me comfort despite myself. I cling to the false sense of safety, clutching the edges of the coat together as if I'm hanging on to it for dear life.

Angelo guides me inside, holding me under the hollow of his arm while the driver carries the bags. We bypass the reception and walk straight to the elevators. Angelo must've already checked in.

As we wait for the elevator, he smiles down at me and tilts his head toward the mug in my hand. His tone is uncharacteristically soft. "Finished?"

I nod.

He takes the mug and pulls me inside when the doors open. The driver follows with the bags. Angelo obviously doesn't trust the hotel staff with his luggage. After what just happened, I can't blame him.

We get out on the top floor. He unlocks the first door with a keycard and holds onto me as he brings me inside a spacious lounge. The room is richly decorated in beige and gold. The style is baroque. The driver drops the bags in the adjoining room and leaves. Only when we're alone does Angelo drop his arm and give me space.

Stepping sideways, I hug myself. He watches me, never moving his gaze from my face as he takes off his jacket and throws it over a chair.

I tense when he walks to me. He reaches out carefully but with determination. Going about it slowly, he brushes his coat from my shoulders. He catches it over his arm, searching my eyes as he lays it over his jacket before removing the coat he gave me, which fits me surprisingly well.

I stand quietly, allowing him to strip off the coat, but when he cups my face between his palms, I duck and put distance between us.

My voice is shaky. "I need a shower." I need to wash what's happened away.

"Of course," he says, standing with his empty palms raised for a second before lowering his arms to his sides.

I'm glad he doesn't ask why. I'm relieved that he gives me quiet understanding as he takes my hand and leads me through a large bedroom into a bathroom where he turns on the water in the shower.

"Can you give me a moment?" I ask, biting my lip. For some reason, I don't want him to see me naked. Not now. I have to do this alone.

"What have they done, Sabella?"

"Nothing," I say quickly. I didn't want to talk about it in the car, and I still don't.

Steam billows in a white cloud over the door of the shower cubicle, turning the air warm and humid, but he doesn't budge. "No, bella. It wasn't nothing. I know how the system works."

Exasperated, I say, "Then you know what happened."

"Tell me anyway."

"Why?" I exclaim. "Why do you want me to say it if you already know?"

"Because I'm asking you."

I huff a laugh. "I think you have no idea. You just want to make sure I didn't sing like a canary."

"That's not true," he says, his long legs eating up the distance between us.

I take in the wide set of his shoulders and how the fitted shirt hugs his frame. How the muscles weave and string together underneath. How strong he is. Has he ever been forced to do something he didn't want to do? I doubt that. Very much. Not a man like him. No officer has ever laid a finger on him.

Testing my theory, I ask, "Have you ever been inside?"

He purses his lips.

A victorious smile curves my lips. "Thought so."

"I don't have to be arrested to imagine what it's like."

It's hard to hold that smile when my mouth is so stiff from the effort. "You can't imagine feelings you'll never know."

"You're right." His manner is demure. "I've never set foot in an interrogation room."

"Then you can't have any idea what it's like to strip naked, to bend over, and to be examined by a stranger in parts too private for strangers to see. You can't know what it's like to be chained to a table and the floor in a room for hours. You don't know how it feels to be so cold that the pain in your hands and feet becomes needles under your skin."

The violence that flows so shallowly under the surface of the man who's now my husband surfaces in the rage that contorts his features. In contrast, his voice is calm as he reaches for me again. "Then tell me."

"Don't touch me," I cry out, trying to flee, but the bathroom is too small.

He easily catches me in the tender vise of his arms, breathing soft, insistent words in my neck. "Tell me."

I fight his hold, not wanting his comfort. Not wanting him to be nice to me. Because this part of Angelo? I don't trust it. I don't understand it. I don't understand how he can be so cruel the one moment and so kind the next.

He gives me gentle words again. A cruel command. "Tell me, cara."

The emotions that have been building since he walked into the church and married me at gunpoint reach a breaking point. My earlier meltdown after I pulled the trigger was about something different, about who I am deep inside, about not wanting to look at that woman too closely for fear of what I'll find. Now? It all comes pouring out in a pathetic display of anger as I fight him for all I'm worth, flailing my arms and twisting in his hold to free myself. Because I'm too ashamed to admit what I feel.

"Tell me," he says, pinning my arms to my sides and lifting me off my feet.

The helplessness only makes the anger worse. It spills over my lips in a truthful confession I never intended to give him. "It feels dirty," I yell. "Like my body has been invaded."

He stills. Another breath tickles my temple, disturbing wisps of hair. The only sound in the room is the water running in the shower. My shame is flayed open and laid at my enemy's feet.

Carefully, he lowers me to the floor, but he doesn't let me go when my toes touch the ground. He holds me against him, hugging me while the storm inside me does its damage, until my shivering stops and my body goes still.

"Sabella," he says with something close to a growl. "I'll fucking kill them."

"Just stop saying that." My shoulders sag. "Please."

The storm wreaked its havoc. The aftermath is a quiet landscape of brutal devastation. I don't know how much more of this I can take. Not in one day. Not even a lifetime is enough.

Angelo is a man of contrasts. True to his nature, he gives me one wish while denying me the other. He doesn't speak of killing any longer. Instead, he undresses me, not granting me the luxury of privacy.

He takes off his own clothes and carries me into the shower. Like the night I first gave myself to him, he cleans me, washing away the touch of unfamiliar hands. The humiliation. He wipes away my thoughts and replaces them with physical feelings, forcing me to focus on nothing but pleasure as he slides inside me slowly under a cascade of cleansing water. The rock of his hips is gentle. His grip in my hair is hard. The look in his eyes is fierce as he holds me in place, his gaze fixed on my face as he makes love to me.

The steel grip of his fingers is painful around my wrist as he pushes my hand between my legs. He holds it there, setting the pace while making me use my own fingers to rub my clit. I place the palm of my free hand over the black ink on his chest. His heart is the same color inside, yet it beats strongly under warm flesh. Sometimes, when I touch that picture, I expect it to feel differently—cold and dead.

When I come, he releases my arm and wraps a hand around my neck to hold me against the wall while he kisses me. His lips are warm and soft on mine, wet with drops of water. The kiss is tender and urgent at the same time, demanding all my attention. He grunts into the kiss and punches his groin against mine like he does when he finds his release. He's still pumping inside me while tangling our tongues with his eyes wide open long after the spasms have rippled out.

Both the sex and the aftermath are different than before. Surprisingly, this gentleness takes everything from me. It's not a punishment that requires resistance and pulling up walls around my heart. It allows me to let go. In its wake follows an overpowering knowledge that I'm ruined for other men.

The admission isn't new. It's just never stared me with so much finality in the face.

I lean on the wall, letting it hold my weight when he pulls out. Letting him wash between my legs. The earlier feelings are gone, someone else's clinical touch eradicated by his heated gaze and meticulous passion.

He turns off the water and wraps a towel around me before securing one around his waist. I know the routine. He dries me first before taking care of himself. We're silent, absorbed in our own thoughts as he towels his hair dry and I brush mine.

Back in the bedroom, I'm grateful for the warm, comfortable pajama set he takes out of one of the bags. It still has the price tag on.

"Where did you get all of this?" I ask, motioning at the rest of the women's clothes in the bag.

He drops the towel and takes a pair of pajama bottoms from the other bag. "Personal shopper."

My gaze is drawn to the heavy, thick cock between his legs that's already semi-hard again.

"It'll take some time for your own things to arrive." He steps into the pants and pulls them over his hips. "Even with air freight. The clothes Celeste packed for you is hardly enough for a week." He walks over and stares down at me with dark, brooding eyes. "What were you planning on doing?"

This is dangerous ground. We're not going there again. I turn, but he stops me with a hand on my bicep.

"I think I deserve an answer, bella." His smile is flat. "Don't you?"

"I don't know." I blink, trying to hold his gaze without faltering. "I didn't really think about it. Hide out for a couple of weeks in the Drakensberg. It was just an idea."

The muscles around his mouth draw tight. "Just an idea?"

"You punished me. Can we please move on?"

He considers that before unlocking his fingers and releasing my arm.

"Aren't we going back to the yacht?" I ask to change the subject.

"It's more comfortable for you here." He lifts the covers, a quiet instruction for me to get into bed. "We'll leave after breakfast."

Just like that, my animosity flares. I cross my arms. "Are you concerned about my comfort now?"

"Of course."

"That wasn't the case earlier."

"I took care of your pleasure, didn't I? I could've simply gotten myself off."

I grit my teeth. "I didn't enjoy that."

"That wasn't the point."

"I don't want it to happen again."

"You have a short memory." He brushes his knuckles over my cheek. "You promised to fulfill any marital duties I see fit, and this is very much part of the duties I expect my wife to fulfill."

"Liar. You're only saying this so you can punish me again. Admit it, Angelo, hurting me turned you on."

"Yes," he says with brutal honesty that takes me aback, tilting his hips and letting me feel his hard-on. "But as I said, it's up to you how much you enjoy it."

I utter a yelp when he catches me in his arms and pulls me down on top of him on the bed.

"Now close your pretty eyes and shut that cheeky mouth so that we can get some sleep." He presses a soft kiss on my neck. "Tomorrow, you're meeting your new home."

My ribcage squeezes, the air in my lungs compressing, and it has nothing to do with the tightness of his arms around my body and everything with the way in which he made that declaration, as if the worst is yet to come.