10. Gia

An hour later, I've managed to at least make myself look as if I've calmed down. But I'm still angry, my frustration simmering just below the surface. But I shower and dress and put my hair up. When Salvatore knocks on the door, unlocking it and stepping inside a moment later, I wait for him to say something about my choice of clothing.

"I didn't know if you expected formal dress every hour of the day in your own home," I snipe. "But at my home, I'm used to dressing mostly how I please."

Salvatore ignores me. He already knows that his insistence on dressing nicely for meals irritated me. I watch his gaze sweep over me, taking in my dark skinny jeans and soft teal-colored t-shirt, my makeup-less face, and the messy bun atop my head. "You can dress however you want," he says coolly. "I'm not going to give you a list of rules, Gia."

"Of course. You'll just make them up in your head and then reprimand me when I fail." I smile sweetly at him, but it doesn't reach my eyes. "Are you going to spank me when I'm bad?"

There's that twitch in his jaw again. A tell, but I haven't yet figured out if it means he's aroused or angry. Or both. "I don't have goalposts for you, Gia," he says tersely. "But I do expect a proper mafia wife. So I'm going to show you your home, and then you'll meet with the staff. All the things I said you needed to learn before your marriage will apply here. I expect you to oversee my household, arrange and plan the dinners and parties that will be expected, and make friends with the wives of my associates. And I expect you to do it pleasantly, and without constantly reminding me how displeased you are to be here."

"I can't promise anything." That sweet smile is still on my lips, but my tone is venomous. "Although I suppose you could find some way to force it. You're good at forcing promises out of women, apparently. Just yesterday, you managed to make me say vows I didn't mean."

Salvatore draws in a slow breath, and for a moment, I think he's going to shake me again. He certainly seems to want to. But instead, he turns and gestures towards the door. "Let's get on with the tour."

I step out into the hallway. We're on the third floor of the mansion Salvatore lives in. The floors are wood, the walls a soft blue, edged with matching dark wood. The room I just came from has a double door, and I see another matching suite across the hallway. They appear to be the only two rooms on this floor.

"The master suite," Salvatore says from just behind me, making me jump. He steps forward, opening the other doors. "I put you in the suite reserved for important guests. I intended it to be your room, once I brought you home. But as I said, the attack changed my mind about our sleeping arrangements."

Important guests. Home.I'm not a guest; I'm his wife, but this isn't my home. My home is a few miles away, a rolling green estate with lush gardens and a gorgeous mid-century mansion as the focal point of it all. This place feels strange, unwelcoming.

But I follow Salvatore's lead, and walk into the master suite, because I'm beginning to realize that I'll need to pick at least some of my battles.

It's a huge room. There's a fireplace at one end, French doors leading out onto a balcony, and a bed bigger even than the one I woke up in. It's very similar to the suite across the hall, except decorated in darker tones—deep greys—and with some of Salvatore's possessions neatly visible. An uncomfortable sense of intimacy fills me—I see his watch on the nightstand, the closet door cracked open just enough for me to see suits hanging inside of it. The air smells like him, like the woodsy cologne that he wears, and my stomach tightens.

He's going to expect me to sleep with him in that bed tonight, and every night that comes after it. He'll expect more, too—whether it's tonight or further in the future, but eventually?—

Salvatore clears his throat. "Follow me," he says curtly, as if he saw my gaze linger on the bed for too long, and wants to put a stop to my line of thinking.

He leads me down a long, curving wooden staircase. It gleams in the sunlight coming through the tall windows from the top floor, down to the second floor. "The guest rooms are here," he says. "A few of them have en-suite bathrooms; others are simply bedrooms, with another large bathroom on this hall. If we have guests at any point, you are expected to assign rooms based on their status within the Family. I assume I don't have to explain to you how to determine that."

I shake my head. Truthfully, I'm not all that aware of which families hold the most status, which should be favored over the others. But I don't want to hear another lecture on holes my father supposedly left in my wifely education, so I keep my mouth shut, and let Salvatore assume.

"I don't think I need to show you through each and every one. Most of what I want to show you is on the main floor." He gestures to the staircase, and I follow him down to the stone-tiled entryway that leads into the remainder of the house.

"My study is there." He motions to the first door down a hallway to the left. "I prefer to be left alone when I'm working, but if you need me, you can usually find me there during the day. There is a library down here as well." He leads me down the hall, past the door that I assume goes to his study, and into the library.

It's a large room with another fireplace, leather seating scattered across the space, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Salvatore looks at me, clearly expecting my approval, and I find that I don't want to give it.

"What? You think just because I mentioned once that I like to read, you'll win me over with this?" I shrug. "It's fine. The one I'm used to at home was bigger."

Truthfully, it's lovely. The library in my father's house was airier and more modern, but there's an old-world beauty to this room that catches my eye. Those same blue tones and dark wood, the leather seating all visibly buttery-soft to the touch, the stone fireplace built with varying shades of grey that give it a rustic elegance. But I'm not about to admit that to Salvatore.

Nor do I want to admit how gorgeous the rest of his home is. He leads me through a similarly decorated formal living room—only with fewer bookshelves and velvet seating, the rugs tufted in a rose pattern—and a semi-formal living room with a long, soft-looking sectional couch that has thickly knitted throw blankets folded over it, inviting me to curl up with a book in front of the fireplace.

"Did you tell them to put a fireplace in every room?" I ask sweetly, crossing my arms. "Or was that an accidental design choice?"

Once again, Salvatore ignores me. I press my lips together, forcing myself to keep my expression smooth, not to show how irritated it makes me that he can ignore me so easily, without consequence. I'm sure if I ignored something he had to say, I wouldn't hear the end of it.

He's clearly not willing to let me bait him any longer, but I know it's only a matter of time before I manage to get under his skin again. He can try to bolster himself against it, but I'm not going to let him have any rest. Not when he's taken me away from everything I wanted.

He shows me both dining rooms, the smaller one where we'll take our meals and the larger one where the dinner parties he talked about will be held. And then he leads me out of the glass doors at the back of the house, to the estate beyond.

"There's a swimming pool there." He gestures to where I can see a small building, and a fenced-in deck. "And the gardens and greenhouse are that way. My cook likes to grow some of her own produce, so she puts it to good use." Salvatore pauses, taking a deep breath, as if he's trying to summon his goodwill back. "I saw how much you enjoyed the gardens at your father's home, Gia. I thought you would like to see the ones here. You can make whatever changes you like. In fact, if there's anything about the house you would like to change, feel free to give me your ideas. I'm not so overly attached to any of it that I won't listen."

"I'd like to change the fact that I'm expected to live here." I pivot towards him, refusing to give an inch. Inwardly, I couldn't help but feel a small pinch of emotion that he remembered how much time I spent in the gardens at home once it was warm again, how happy it made me to be outside. But I won't let him manipulate me with it. "You can show me whatever you want, Salvatore. It doesn't change that this is a very beautiful prison."

His mouth twitches, ever so slightly. "So you're admitting you do like it."

"No!" I glare at him, taking an angry step forward. "I don't like it. I don't like being here. I don't like you. And I don't like anything about this situation that you've forced me into."

His jaw tightens. He looks down at me, and I can tell that he's close to his breaking point. I'm pissing him off, and I imagine the sexual frustration isn't helping. He can say he doesn't want me all he likes, but I can see the way he's looking at me.

"We're not going to do this every day, Gia," he says quietly. "I'm not going to indulge your desire to make this marriage one of utter misery?—"

"Then you probably shouldn't have married me." I give him that falsely sweet smile again. "After all, despite watching me grow up, you really don't know me all that well, do you?"

"I know that even your father wouldn't have allowed you to be such a brat!" Salvatore snaps, and then instantly tenses, taking a step back. His anger is rising, and I can see him trying to control himself. I see him swallow hard, see his hands flex, see the way his eyes darken as he looks at me. He might say he doesn't like my attitude, but it's not only anger that's making him look as if he's on the verge of snapping.

And despite myself, a flutter of curiosity makes my pulse throb in the hollow of my throat, my own heartbeat quickening. The memory of Salvatore's long, deft fingers sliding over my heated flesh, the pleasure that rippled over me, the expert way he made me come—it all comes back to me, and I feel my breath catch in my throat.

I don't want him. I don't. But it had felt so good. Better than anything I've ever done alone, despite what I said to him earlier. And I can feel warmth spreading through my veins, a faint ache forming as I wonder what it would feel like if he did it again, and didn't stop. If he replaced his fingers with his tongue. His?—

I shake my head to clear it, taking a step back. It doesn't matter, I tell myself sharply. What matters is that I figure out how to exploit this. How to make his life miserable for what he took from me.

Salvatore clears his throat. "Come with me, Gia," he says tersely. "It's time for you to meet the staff." He leans down as we walk back inside. "You're in charge of running the household now," he murmurs. "Act like it."

His reprimand burns. It infuriates me that he talks to me like I'm a foolish child, treats me like I'm ignorant, and yet clearly wants me as much as any man wants a woman. I pull away from him, following him into the large kitchen that faces out towards the gardens.

Waiting on us are the staff he wants me to meet. A tall, slender woman with greying hair, wearing a uniform-like outfit of black dress pants, a cream-colored blouse, and a blazer. Next to her is a stouter, but slightly younger woman, with blonde hair wrapped in a tight bun at the back of her head. Behind them are a handful of other staff, men and women, and I wonder if this is all of them or only the ones that Salvatore thought it was necessary for me to meet.

"This is Agatha." He nods to the uniformed woman. "She has handled the household for me for years, and she'll help you now. Frances—" Salvatore looks at the stouter woman. "My cook. And your personal maid will be Leah." He motions to one of the women standing at the back of the room, a girl who looks only a few years older than me with dark hair and eyes, wearing an outfit similar to Agatha's. "The others are my primary staff—in charge of cleaning, landscaping, and otherwise maintaining the house and grounds. They will follow your directions, unless they conflict with mine, in which case Agatha will come to me to discuss."

Resentment instantly spikes in my chest. "So I'm not really in charge."

I can feel the tension in the air immediately, and see the other staff glancing at each other out of the corner of my eye. Some of them clearly didn't expect there to be dissent between Salvatore and me, but when I look at Agatha and Frances, they don't appear surprised. So, some of them have an idea of what's going on.

Salvatore ignores my comment. "You can discuss the running of the house with them, Gia. I'll be in my office. I'll find you before dinner."

And with that, he turns and leaves.

I feel a prickle of unease as I turn back to the two women in front of me. I'm not at all prepared for this—if there's one thing Salvatore is right about, it's that I didn't learn as much as I probably should have about this sort of thing. But I didn't think—and still don't—that Pyotr would care about that. And I'm not about to admit that Salvatore has a point when it comes to any of this.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Gia," Agatha says, although I think I can hear a hint of dislike in her voice. "Salvatore has asked me to fill you in on the running of the house, so that you can more easily manage it going forward." She gestures towards the table. "We can sit. Leah, you stay, along with Frances and I. The rest of you should go back to work."

"Shouldn't I be telling them that?" I ask sharply, and Agatha glances at me.

"You can save the sharp tongue for your husband, Mrs. Morelli," she says calmly. "I'm only following the don's instructions. We'll share the duties of running this place, and I'm sure that with my help, you won't feel overburdened."

The way she says it stings, as if she clearly thinks I'm a spoiled child. Everyone thinks that. Bitterness worms its way through me, because the Bratva wanted me. To them, I was a prize. Pyotr wanted me. Instead, I'm here, with a husband who refuses to fuck me, and a house full of staff who seem to think I'm an annoyance. Someone to be worked around instead of respected.

"Fine." I sit down, my spine ramrod straight as I look at her evenly. "Fill me in."

The rest of the staff disperse, and the other three women—Agatha, Frances, and Leah—take their seats. "Salvatore likes routine," Agatha says. "Meals are served at the same time every day. Breakfast at seven, lunch at noon, and dinner at six. He takes his meals in the informal dining room, where I expect he'll want you to join him. During the rest of the day, he makes himself scarce. He expects neatness, and the staff is used to that, so I'm sure they would be pleased not to have to pick up after clutter, if that's your way."

I can't help but bristle at that. "I know how to pick up after myself."

"Leah will bring you tea or coffee in the mornings when you wake, at six," Agatha continues, as if I hadn't spoken. "So you can enjoy it in privacy while you get ready."

I realize, as she says it, that Salvatore must not have informed her about the change in plans—that I'm no longer going to have my own room, but share his. "Salvatore said I'll be sleeping with him," I say stiffly. "So she should bring it to our room."

It feels wrong on my tongue to say that. A brief look of disapproval crosses Agatha's face. "He told me yesterday, that as he had married his goddaughter, you would be put in the rooms across the hall from his."

"Things changed." I don't elaborate on what changed, because I enjoy seeing this woman squirm. Enjoy seeing her imagine that her precious boss's lusts overtook him, and he ravaged me on our wedding night, with every intent to continue doing it in the future, rather than the truth—which is that we were attacked, and he wants to keep me close for my safety.

Or so he said.I'm not entirely convinced.

"Well." Agatha clears her throat, and I see her exchange a brief glance with Frances. "Then Leah will bring it to you there. She'll handle your laundry, errands, and anything that you need."

"I thought I'd have Claire come here. The maid who took care of me at home." I know arguing is useless, but I can't stop myself from trying. Every plan I had for myself continually seems to be undone.

"This is your home now," Agatha says stiffly, echoing Salvatore. "And I'm following the don's instructions. If you disagree, take it up with him."

I intend to. I take a slow breath. "What else?"

"You are allowed to use the house and grounds as you please, but you are not allowed to leave the estate without the don's permission. All of the security is aware of this. If you wish to make any changes to the house, let me know, and I will see to it."

I clench my hands in my lap, my irritation rising by the second. So now I'm not allowed to leave. To see my friends. I want to shout at Agatha, but deep down, I know it's not her fault. It's Salvatore's. And I have every intention of taking it out on him.

Agatha stands up. "You can discuss meals with Frances. Leah, come with me. I'll make sure your things have been delivered, and Leah will arrange them in your room."

I nod, unable to speak. If I say anything, I feel like I won't be able to stop an outburst, and they'll think even less of me than they already do. My throat tightens, frustrated tears burning at the backs of my eyes, but I don't dare cry.

I want to think I was raised to be tougher than this, but the truth is that I wasn't. My father did spoil me, but not in the derogatory way that Salvatore likes to say. He didn't prepare me to have to face these kinds of obstacles, the attitudes of disapproving staff and a cold husband, because I wasn't supposed to have to deal with any of them.

If Salvatore hadn't interfered, I'd be happily married by now, settling into the home Pyotr and I planned to share.

Frances clears her throat, and I turn my attention back to her. "Salvatore can be particular about meals," she says calmly. "I can give you an idea of his preferences, and you can base the weekly menus on that. He prefers seafood and lamb most days for dinners, occasionally chicken or duck?—"

"I don't care." I blurt it out before I can stop myself, pushing my chair back and standing up. I feel like I'm vibrating, like I need to get out of this room before I scream, because I can't stand to hear about Salvatore's food preferences as if nothing is wrong. As if any of this is how my life was supposed to go. "Make whatever you want. I don't care about any of it."

I see the look on Frances' face at my outburst. I can see exactly what she thinks of me—that I'm stubborn and spoiled, that I don't deserve Salvatore, who all of these people seem to like. But no one seems to give a shit about what I like, or want.

"Salvatore is a good man," Frances says, as if echoing my thoughts. "We were—surprised, to hear he married his goddaughter. But he must have had good reason." Everything she doesn't say is dripping from her tone—he should have picked a better wife. Someone who doesn't stamp her foot and argue. Someone who isn't so spoiled.

Briefly, I can't help but wonder if he might change his mind about the marriage, with so much pushback all around him. It's clear that the heads of his staff—whom he clearly respects—disapprove. That they don't like me, and thought this was a marriage of convenience, not a real marriage. That the idea that it might be more than that disturbs them. Maybe if he sees I'm not the only one who feels that way, he'll give me back.

But I know that's all but impossible now. It would be one thing if I could run away and get to Pyotr before Salvatore actually takes my virginity, or if Pyotr managed to steal me back first. I might be able to convince Pyotr that he would still be the first man to actually be inside of me, to finish in me, the only man who could possibly be the father of my future child. But as far as everyone in our world goes?—

The marriage has been witnessed. It was public, in front of the other families, vows spoken in front of a priest, the sheets sent to be seen by the head of the Family and the pakhan. For us, it's all but impossible to dissolve now. Only my infidelity could do it, and maybe not even then, if the paternity of Salvatore's heir is proven, and it's his.

What it comes down to, simply, is that I'm not willing to give in just yet. I'm not willing to accept that Salvatore is going to be my husband, that this is going to be my life, that all of my wants are ash now, and my only future is what he's chosen for me.

And if that is true, I'm going to make him pay for it.

"I mean it," I tell Frances. "Cook whatever you want. Go nuts. Make what you know Salvatore likes. I don't care about any of it."

And then I turn on my heel, and stalk out of the room.

I need to burn off some energy. I feel like a trapped animal, and for the first time in my life, I wish I liked running. But that's never been my exercise of choice.

Instead, I go up to the master suite—I can't bring myself to think of it as my bedroom yet—and see Leah unpacking boxes and unzipping garment bags. "I can handle this," I tell her, but she shakes her head.

"It's my job," she says simply, and starts to put away my clothing.

Truthfully, she's right. And if I were home, I wouldn't object to it. I'm used to having most things like this done for me. But I'm tired of standing in place like a doll while everyone moves around me, and insists I do things their way.

I snatch a stack of clothing out of her hands. "I'll put these away," I tell her sharply, and she just looks at me for a moment, before nodding and turning back to another box.

I feel a little guilty for snapping at her. It's not her fault any more than it's anyone else's here besides my new husband. But he's not here at the moment for me to lash out at him.

I need to burn some of this off.I look for my exercise clothes, grabbing a pair of my favorite leggings, a sports bra, and a tank top, before going into the bathroom to change.

No one has unpacked any of my toiletries yet. Everything in the bathroom is painfully masculine, all of it Salvatore's. His razor, his shaving cream, and brush, and a bottle of his cologne. The room smells like him, and I can't help but think that despite how I feel about him, it's a pleasant smell. Warm and woodsy, and I breathe in before catching myself and shaking my head.

Once upon a time, I liked him well enough, even if I didn't pay very much attention to him. He was my godfather and my father's best friend, a fixture in our lives, but one that I didn't give much more consideration to than any other fixture. Like furniture that's always there, until you forget about it, or a painting you don't notice any longer. But now, he's set himself up to be the central part of my life. The thing around which everything else orbits.

My husband.

I suck in a breath, willing myself to calm down as I change and hurry past Leah to go downstairs. There's a workout room past the library that Salvatore showed me, and I'm looking forward to using it. It's well-appointed, with weights, a boxing bag, mats, and a few exercise machines. One of the walls is entirely a mirror, and I put one of the mats down in front of it, filling a water bottle and then settling in to stretch.

After a few minutes, the physical exertion starts to clear my mind. I focus on it, on the feeling of my muscles, the tension slowly flowing out of them as I go through my familiar stretching routine. When I feel warm and limber, I run through a few core exercises, and then go to where the free weights are racked.

This will help.It's already helping. The burn of my muscles, the repetition, the feeling of being stronger, it all helps. It's been the better part of a week since I've had time to work out, but I sink back into it easily, and the world fades away from me, Salvatore briefly forgotten. I promise myself that I'll make sure to do this regularly—if only so I can escape from my new reality for a little while.

I'm so lost in it that I don't hear the door open at first. I'm back on the mat, working through a Pilates routine with a video pulled up on my cell phone in front of me, when I suddenly look up and see Salvatore standing in the doorway.

"I'm busy." I look away from him, focusing on holding the stretch I'm in, my core tight and my legs scissored in front of me. But suddenly, I feel exposed. I can feel his eyes on me, on my body in the tight spandex, on the shape and flex of my lean muscles under my skin. All of it belongs to him, and I'm suddenly painfully aware of it, sweat prickling on my spine as I glance up in the mirror again. "What do you want?"

"You're going to be late for dinner." Salvatore shifts, leaning against the doorjamb. "You don't look as if you're about to be finished. And you'll need to shower and change. I believe I was clear that I expect?—"

"I don't care what you expect," I snap. I let myself fall out of the position I was in, my concentration broken, and my good mood dissolving by the second. "I've been informed of how sacrosanct your routine is, by both you and your house manager and your cook, for fuck's sake, but apparently mine doesn't matter?"

Salvatore snorts. "I don't think you have a routine, Gia. Anyone as spoiled as you just does whatever she wants when the mood strikes her. At her own whim."

Anger instantly bubbles up in my chest, and I seethe. "Oh fuck you," I snap. "I'll go upstairs and change when I'm ready. And I'm not done yet."

I turn my attention back to my workout, and I expect him to leave. I hoped I put enough finality in my tone that he'd take the hint for once, and let me alone. But clearly, it wasn't good enough, because when I look up again, he's still watching me in the mirror.

"I want privacy." I look at him, moving my legs back and forth, my body in a V-shape. "You want privacy in your study, I want it in here." My voice comes out more breathless than I'd like, this far into my workout. Strained. The way I sounded in bed on our wedding night, when Salvatore made me come apart, his fingers between my legs. Inside of me.

"It's my house." Salvatore shrugs, his gaze fixed on me in the mirror. And I realize, with rising awareness, that he's having a hard time leaving. He wants to watch me.

Get back at him. Make him want you. Punish him.

I roll over onto my hands and knees, facing the mirror. For the briefest moment, Salvatore's eyes dip, down to the shape of my ass in the tight leggings. Down further, to the cutouts along my legs filled in with black netting. Back up to the mirror, fast enough that I could have missed it if I weren't watching him, too. I arch my back, moving into the next part of my routine, and I see Salvatore tense.

"I thought it was our house now." I stretch one long leg out and then another. I see his jaw tighten, and his gaze flick over me again. "So I should get places where I can be alone, if I want."

"I came to remind you about dinner." He shifts his weight, and when I look at him again, I can see the beginning of the shape of his cock in his trousers. I'm turning him on. If I were a betting woman, I'd guess that he wants to leave, but can't bring himself to.

He's not just lying to me about his desires. He's lying to himself, too.

"Well, I'm reminded."

"You're going to be late, Gia. You've been in here long enough."

"How do you know? Maybe I just started."

I see his eyes sweep over me again, taking in the patches of sweat on my clothing, the way it clings tightly to my damp skin. I see him shift again, see his cock thicken. "You didn't," he says tightly. "Stop making everything so difficult, Gia."

"I'm sorry." The tone in my voice implies I'm not sorry at all. "I didn't mean to make it so hard."

Salvatore flinches. His eyes meet mine, and he sees the challenge there. The rebellion. He takes a step into the room, and shuts the door behind him, flipping the lock.

My pulse leaps.

He strides across the room quickly, his long legs eating up the space before I can do more than move so that I'm sitting on the mat. He sinks down next to me, his hand suddenly pressed between my breasts as he pushes me down onto my back, looming over me. He's breathing hard, his chest heaving, his eyes gone dark with arousal.

"You're testing me, Gia," he says darkly. "What will it take for you to learn manners? A little bit of gratitude, even?"

"For what?" I glare up at him. "You ruined my life."

"No, I didn't." Salvatore meets my eyes, his own growing heated. "I saved you, but you're too?—"

"Too what?" I fire back. "Don't say too much of a child, you fucking hypocrite, because you're not looking at me like one right now."

Salvatore's breathing quickens, his jaw tight. "You're right," he grinds out. "I'm looking at you like what you are."

"And what's that?" I whisper, feeling that warmth spread over my skin again at the look on his face, the rough desire in his voice.

Salvatore leans down, his hand still pinning me as his mouth moves closer to my lips. "My fucking wife," he growls.

And then his mouth presses hard against mine.

His tongue sweeps over my lower lip, sliding into my mouth when I gasp in shock, tangling with mine. He tastes like spices, with a hint of something sweet, and for a brief moment, my senses are overwhelmed with him—with the taste of his mouth, the heat of his body, and the ruthlessness of the kiss. The one, brief moment where he gives in to the desire he keeps denying he feels, and kisses me like he wants me.

And then he pulls back, his expression cold and hard. His hand stays pressed against my chest as the other slides down my side, his fingers hooking in the waistband of my leggings.

With one swift motion, he yanks them and my panties down to my thighs.

"What are you doing?" I yelp. My refusal to come to terms with the fact that Salvatore is eventually going to take my virginity aside, I do not want to lose it on an exercise mat. "You said you didn't want to hurt me when you fucked me! You will if you?—"

"I'm not going to fuck you," he says stiffly, pulling my leggings down further, over my knees, down to my calves. "I'm going to teach you a lesson."

I stare up at him like he's lost his mind, while I try to ignore the sudden heat that washes through me the moment he says it. My blood suddenly feels too warm in my veins, my skin tingling, that ache forming between my thighs again. "What the fuck are you talking about?—"

"Language, Gia." He keeps me effortlessly pinned with one hand, and for the first time, I realize just how strong he is. I noticed his muscles on our wedding night, when he took his shirt off, but it didn't really sink in. Even this morning, when he grabbed my arms, it wasn't as clear as it is right now.

That heat builds. The ache grows stronger. I feel the dampness between my thighs, a throbbing in my clit as my breath catches. And I know Salvatore sees all of it, and I hate him a little more for it.

"You're a spoiled brat," he says casually. His other hand, the one not pinning me down, touches my left knee. "You need a lesson in obeying your husband. I could spank you, lock you in our room, deny you anything other than time to think about your attitude. But instead, I think I'm going to show you how ridiculous you're being. Acting as if I'm hurting you when all I've done is protect you. When all I did on our wedding night was give you pleasure. And yet you still fight me and act as if you're a prisoner of war."

"You're hurting me," I hiss. "You're keeping me locked up in this house, confined to your estate. I am a prisoner, and I don't want you?—"

"Don't you?" Salvatore's voice rasps, his gaze darkening. "Open your legs, Gia." He turns, reaching for one of the blocks that I used for my workout, and grabs my shoulder, lifting me up so that he can slide it under my shoulders. I start to try to twist away, but his hand holds me in place, his gaze full of warning. "Accept your lesson, Gia. Don't fight me."'

I want to fight him. I want to thrash and scream and hit him. I want to run. But there's something else, too. A blooming curiosity spreading through me, and the memory of what he did on our wedding night, the desire to know what there is that's more. I don't want to let him follow through with whatever he's doing—and I'm also not sure I want him to stop. The ache throbs between my legs, and I look at Salvatore, suddenly frozen.

"Open your legs," he repeats, and nudges my knees apart. "Do as I say, Gia, and you'll learn another lesson in pleasure. Isn't that what you want?"

"Not from you," I hiss, and he laughs darkly.

He pushes my legs open with his arm, no longer waiting for me to obey. His hand slides down my stomach, down to the curls between my thighs, and I gasp as I feel his fingers slide between my folds, spreading them open. "Look," he demands.

"At what?" I hiss, breathless, turning my head away. "At you assaulting me?"

"I'm not doing any such fucking thing," he snarls, losing his composure for a brief second before regaining it. "You're lying when you say you don't want me, Gia. Look."

When I refuse, his hand leaves my chest, wrapping in my ponytail. He turns my head to the mirror, keeping my chin tipped up so that I can see my reflection. Half-undressed, my leggings at my ankles, my legs spread. Salvatore's fingers spread the folds of my pussy, displaying me for his view and mine, and for the first time, I see the most intimate part of myself.

He shifts, moving so that he's next to me, his voice in my ear as he holds me open. "Look at yourself, Gia," he murmurs, his voice low and husky. "You're wet, wife. Flushed and pink." His fingers rub along my folds, and I clench my teeth to keep from making a sound. "Your pretty little clit, about to peek out for me. To swell and harden, while I rub it for you. You've been a very bad girl. But this is your lesson—and your punishment."

Salvatore moves then, shifting behind me, moving the block so that suddenly I'm trapped against his chest. His legs move mine apart, holding me, his hand still spreading my pussy as his other moves to stroke my clit. "You're going to watch," he murmurs in my ear. "Watch while I make you come, Gia. See all your body's reactions to what I do to you. And then, lie to me again about whether or not you want what neither of us have chosen."

I start to snap that he did choose this, that he did steal me at the altar, but I can't find the words. The index finger of his other hand rubs over my clit, and I feel it swell and throb under his touch, more of my arousal wetting his fingers as a rush of desire tightens my stomach and makes me whimper.

I feel the vibration of Salvatore's chuckle at my back. "Good girl," he murmurs, his finger rubbing back and forth. My head starts to fall back against his shoulder, and he stops abruptly, his fingers entirely still on my aching pussy.

"Don't—" I start to say, and then stop myself, sinking my teeth into my lower lip. Salvatore's dark laugh spreads through him again, rumbling against me.

"You're already learning your lesson, wife. Good." He keeps his hands still. "Watch me, Gia. Look in the mirror. I won't let you come until you do. And every time you look away, or close your eyes, I'll stop. I don't care how close you are."

I want to fight him. I do. I don't want to obey. But the aching pulse that's taken up residence between my thighs is stronger than my will to resist, at this moment.

I open my eyes, and look in the mirror.

I look lewd. My face is flushed, my hair falling out of my ponytail, half-naked, while Salvatore sits behind me, fully clothed. And between my legs?—

I'm a wet mess. The curls of my pubic hair are soaked, Salvatore's fingers spreading my swollen folds wide, my clit visible against his index finger. He has my legs open wide enough that I can see everything, down to my clenching entrance and the tight hole beneath, and I feel my face burn hotter with embarrassment.

"You're going to come for me, wife. And you're going to watch while I do it." Salvatore growls in my ear, and his fingers begin to move again.

He knows the rhythm I like, remembers it clearly from the first night he was in bed with me. His fingertip circles my clit slowly, then faster, up and down, stroking me with merciless precision as he keeps my pussy open for us both to see. I feel the ridge of his cock against my spine, impossibly hard, and I know he must be aching. But he only strokes my clit, rubbing faster, and then slower again, pushing me closer to the edge.

I want to come. That thought has begun to push everything else out of my head, demanding to be heard, for him to give me what I need. I whine before I can help myself, a whimpering moan spilling out of my lips as I start to try to buck against his hand. But his legs are holding mine open, holding them in place, and I can barely move. I can't do anything other than watch, and surrender to the pace he's set.

Salvatore slides the index finger of his other hand down, circling my entrance as he keeps stroking my clit. "Look at yourself," he breathes into my ear. "Look at your tight pussy, wanting to be filled. Wanting my finger." He nudges the tip against me, and I feel myself tighten, as if to pull him inside of me. "That's a good girl. Take it for me."

I feel him slide the finger inside of me, my pussy clenching around him, and I moan. I'm so close, all of the sensations heightened by watching as he touches me, by my embarrassment—lust, shame, and confusion all wrapped up together, and I watch as Salvatore starts to finger me. He slides it in and out, and my embarrassment mingles with fascination as I see how wet his finger is, how I clench around him, the reactions of my body as he pushes me closer to my orgasm.

When he adds a second finger, still stroking my clit slowly, I cry out. My hips push forward as much as I can, and I clench my teeth before I can say anything, before I can beg for his cock. I can imagine how it would feel. Thick and hot inside of me, filling me up, thrusting hard, harder, fucking me until I come all over him—the lewd thoughts fill my head like a litany. I gasp, moaning and twisting helplessly, hovering on the very edge of the pleasure I so desperately need.

Behind me, Salvatore is rock-hard. I don't know how he can bear it, if his desire is anything like I feel right now. If he needs like I do in this moment. I don't know how he can stand to make me come like this, instead of tossing me back onto the floor and fucking me.

The thought makes me moan, and Salvatore lets out a low groan, his hips shifting slightly, as if his control is fraying, too.

"Can you take a third finger, wife?" he murmurs in my ear. "Will you learn your lesson then, and come on my hand?"

I nod helplessly, desperate. I watch, trembling with tense need, as he slides a third finger to join the other two, stretching me lewdly. I gasp as I see him start to thrust those three fingers; my pussy opened wide, his other finger rolling over my clit. It presses down, rubbing, and Salvatore nips at my ear.

"Come for me, Gia," he groans. "Take your punishment, little wife. Let me teach you a lesson. I'm telling you to come. Come for me?—"

His voice reverberates in my ear, the words flowing over me, and then they suddenly stop as I tighten, my entire body going tense as my hips buck upwards, and I cry out. I start to let my head fall back, but he uses his shoulder to stop me, forcing me to watch as he buries all three fingers in my stretched pussy up to the knuckles at the base of his hand, two fingers of his other rubbing my clit wildly. I watch as his hand glistens with arousal, wetting him to the wrist as it spills out of me, my clit slick and swollen, my pussy visibly throbbing as I come hard on his hand. I moan, the sound raising to a shriek as he keeps fingering me, keeps rubbing, his hips hard against my ass as I feel his cock throb against my spine, and I feel sure he's going to come too, that he's going to lose control and come in his boxers while he fucks me with his hand. The thought sends another spasm of pleasure through me, and I whine and twist on his fingers, wanting more. I want his cock. I want to be fucked, want?—

Salvatore pulls his hands away, both of them on my knees as he holds my legs open as far as they'll go. "Look at yourself," he snarls in my ear, and I hear anger tangled with lust in his voice. "Look at that wet pussy. You'd come again for me right now if I fucked you. If I took that little clit in my mouth and sucked." His teeth graze against my ear, biting briefly, and I feel him shudder against my back. "Don't fucking act like I'm forcing you, Gia," he growls, and he reaches down, swiping two fingers through my pussy and making me cry out at the brief contact with my oversensitive clit. He presses them to my lips, and when I try to turn my head away, he spreads the wetness over my mouth. "You want to be fucked. And you can tell yourself that you don't want it to be me, but you're lying."

His hand presses against the flat of my belly, holding me against him for a brief second. His cock throbs, and I realize dimly that he's still hard, that he hasn't come yet. And then I feel him shudder again, and he pulls away from me, pushing himself to his feet.

I half topple onto the mat, my body still faintly pulsing with the aftershocks of my orgasm, pleasure making me feel soft and vulnerable. I watch him stride towards the door, not looking back, leaving me there tangled in my clothing.

He slams the door behind himself, and then he's gone.