9. Gia

Ilay in bed, awake, for a long time after Salvatore left. I thought about trying to run, even though I knew it was impossible. I seethed. I plotted ways to make his life miserable, once we leave here tomorrow.

And eventually, I fell asleep.

My dreams are a tangled mess—fractured visions of my wedding gone wrong, heated flashes of Salvatore's hands on my body, of Pyotr walking with me in the garden. I half-wake once or twice, tangled up in the sheets, only to fall back into the dreams again.

And then, I'm snatched out of them by the sound of gunshots.

The sound is so close that it hurts my ears, bolting me awake. I sit up, stifling a scream as I leap out of bed on instinct, clutching the sheet against myself. I fell asleep naked, and I don't want anyone to burst in and find me like this. My heart is hammering in my chest, blood roaring in my ears as I run for the bathroom, closing the door and locking it behind me as more of the shots ring out in the hall.

I'm shaking as I lower myself to the floor in the darkness, wrapping my arms around myself, my teeth sinking into my lip as I fight back the urge to scream. It's Pyotr, I tell myself, trying to keep calm. He's done exactly what you told Salvatore he would do. He's come to rescue you.

But as much as I believe that, the violence that I'm hearing—the shots and the shouts and the faint thud of something hitting the floor—chills me down to my core. I've never been exposed to any of it. Our home was never attacked. My father kept me sheltered from the violence of our world. And as I huddle there, quivering, I feel vaguely as if I'm going into shock.

Terror spreads through me, my mind running away with itself, crafting a dozen horrific scenarios that have nothing to do with Pyotr or what we promised each other. Visions of the Bratva cutting Salvatore down, of the men set to guard me killed, blood everywhere in the hallway of the hotel. I want the husband I was promised—but I don't want anyone to die on account of it. I don't want Salvatore hurt, even though I'm furious with him, even though I feel betrayed.

My marriage was supposed to bring peace, not bloodshed.

None of this is your fault,I remind myself. You had every intention of going ahead with what you promised. This is on Salvatore, not you. But as the seconds tick by, I feel the cold fear spreading through me.

The sound of the door to my room slamming open jolts me, making me jump as I cover my mouth to stifle a scream. I scramble to my feet, looking for an escape as I hear more gunshots, this time in my room, inches from the door. A new fear floods me—the fear that I'm going to catch a stray bullet, that I'll get caught up in the crossfire and injured or killed while the Bratva are trying to come and rescue me.

Or maybe they're not, a tiny voice whispers in my head. Perhaps you're worthless now to them, and they just want revenge.

I shake my head, holding the sheet around myself as I frantically look for a way out. Those are Salvatore's lies about Pyotr and the Bratva poisoning my mind, not anything grounded in truth. If it is the Bratva, it's because Pyotr wants me back. What happened between Salvatore and me tonight is something that can be figured out.

Anyway, he didn't even really consummate the marriage. Technically, I'm still a virgin. Pyotr will believe me, if I tell him that. He has to.

My heart sinks as I scan the room, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. There's no way out, only a small window too high up for me to reach. One that I wouldn't fit through, even if I could get to it. And we're on a high floor—more than likely, it only leads to a deadly drop.

There's another rattle of gunshots, startling me, and this time, I do scream, feeling the blood drain from my face as I spin toward the door. I hear a groan, that heavy falling sound again, and then suddenly the rattling of the doorknob. I back up, shaking like a leaf, frightened tears springing to my eyes.

Another shot, the ping of something striking metal. And then the door swings open, and I see Salvatore, standing silhouetted in the doorway. His white t-shirt is covered in blood, spatters of it on his arms and face, his hair disheveled, and his face dark with rage.

Just beyond him, scattered across the now bloodied and ruined carpet of the hotel room, I can see at least four bodies. Maybe more.

I feel myself sway in place, my head swimming. "You're not doing a very good job of protecting me," I say thickly, just as he starts to stride towards me. "If that really is why you married me."

The room spins around me. My vision narrows. And just as I feel my knees give way, and the darkness rush up to claim me, I feel Salvatore catch me as I fall, his strong arms wrapping around my body.

And then, I pass out, as my vision narrows, both the room around me and the solid feeling of Salvatore's arms fading away into nothingness.

—

I wake to sunlight streaming through gauzy curtains, in a huge four-poster bed, in a room I don't recognize. My eyes feel sticky, and I blink several times, reaching up to rub them as I sit up. I'm still naked, and I reflexively clutch the blanket against my chest, as the events of last night start to come back to me.

The duvet I'm holding feels like velvet. The sheets underneath me are impossibly soft, the kind of astronomical thread count I'm used to at home. The room I'm in is huge, the bed in the center of it, a stone fireplace to my left. There are furnishings that match the bed frame—a wardrobe, a dresser, a vanity. A closet with double doors.

A wing chair next to the window to my right—that Salvatore is currently asleep in.

He's not wearing the bloody clothes from last night any longer. He's wearing dark grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt, and his hair is falling softly around his face, shiny and clean, as if he washed it last night. As I breathe in, I can smell the scents of soap and shampoo lingering in the air—he must have showered here, in the bathroom that I'm pretty sure is past the door next to the closet.

He didn't want to leave me, after what happened.It's the logical assumption, and I wait for it to soften something inside of me, to make me believe his story that all of this is for my own protection. My own good. I think of the violence last night, the blood and bodies that I saw, and shiver as my stomach churns with a sudden nausea.

I glance over at him again. He looks younger in the early morning light, asleep and relaxed as he is. I shift in the bed, biting my lip as I wonder if I should wake him—and then I see him start to stir, as if that slight movement was enough.

He opens his eyes, sitting up as he rubs a hand over his face. "Good morning," he says, his voice rusty, and I tense. His dark gaze meets mine, and the rest of yesterday comes rushing back to me, resentment filling me to meet it.

"Is it?" I cross my arms over the blanket I'm still holding to my chest. "Theft and murder in one day. You really are everything a mafia don aspires to be, aren't you? But nothing like my father."

Salvatore's lips thin momentarily. "Do you always wake up so combative?" he murmurs, sitting up straighter as he runs a hand through his hair. I try to ignore how soft it looks, spilling through his fingers as he looks back at me.

"Only when I wake up in a strange room, with the man who literally stole me away from my fiancé at the altar sleeping across from me." I glare at him. "What happened last night?"

He lets out a slow breath. "I'm sorry for leaving you," he says tersely. "It won't happen again."

I try not to make assumptions about what that might mean, yet. I have a feeling it's not something I'm going to like. "Why?" I ask instead, still glaring. "Why did you leave me?" I hadn't wanted him to stay—to sleep next to me—but it feels like the next logical question to ask. I have the distinct feeling that decisions about me are being made around me, without my input, and I don't like it. I like it even less when it seems like those decisions led to a shootout in my bedroom.

Salvatore sighs. "I thought it was better to put some space between us. With emotions as—heightened, as they were." He runs a hand through his hair again, watching me warily, as if I'm something he expects to pounce. "I planned to arrange for us to have separate bedrooms here. But now I've reconsidered."

"Where is here?"

"My home. Our home now, I suppose. Your things will be delivered today from your family home, don't worry," he adds, as if my primary concern right now is anything material.

"So you just decided that I would live here?" I feel my teeth grind together. "Am I going to be asked my opinion about anything, any longer?"

Salvatore lets out a long-suffering breath. "A wife moves in with her husband after marriage," he says slowly, as if speaking to a child. It irritates me, because not only am I not a child, but he certainly didn't seem to see me as one last night.

"Your wife." I press my lips together. "You should decide if you're going to look at me like that, or patronize me as your ward. You can't have both."

Something sparks in his eyes, dark and irritated, and I can tell I'm starting to get under his skin. Good. "So we're not going to have separate bedrooms?" I make sure he can hear the disappointment in my tone.

"No," Salvatore says tightly. "We'll share a room at night, so if there is an attack here, I'm better able to protect you. And when I'm not here, you'll have a heavy guard on you at all times." He says the last pointedly, as if to remind me that there's no use thinking about trying to escape. Just because we've changed locations doesn't mean it will be any easier for me to slip away, and try to go to the Bratva.

Frustration wells up in me. I had a chance to go back to Pyotr last night. I feel sure that he would have believed me, once I was able to tell him that Salvatore hadn't actually fucked me last night. But the more time that passes, the more likely it is that won't be true any longer.

Last night, I'd been frustrated at having my wedding night interrupted, aroused and not thinking clearly, wanting to find out all the rest of what I'd been promised would happen. But now, I'm back to dreading it.

Once Salvatore finishes what he started, there is very little chance that Pyotr will want me any longer. And then, any possibility of our marriage will be shattered.

"It was the Bratva, last night," Salvatore says quietly—as if I would have thought it was anyone else. "Trying to take you back, possibly. Or just seeking revenge."

"I told you Pyotr would come for me," I snap. Salvatore says nothing, and my stomach tightens. I'm angry with him for putting me in this position, and angry with myself for doubting Pyotr last night—for believing that the Bratva had come to kill me, too. In the light of day, my fears seem foolish. I remember everything we talked about, all the things we said to each other, and I'm ashamed I doubted him.

"What happens now?" I tilt my chin up defiantly, daring Salvatore to tell me what else he has planned. "What else have you decided for me?"

He breathes out slowly again, another long-suffering sigh, as if even sitting here and telling me is too frustrating for him. You have no idea how frustrating I plan to make things, I seethe inwardly, gritting my teeth.

"The sheets from last night will be sent to the pakhan," he says calmly. "Proof that the marriage was consummated. I doubt it will stop their plans for bloodshed. But it should stop any attempts to reclaim you, personally."

Something in his voice falters when he says it, as if he's not entirely sure. I grab onto it, wanting to exploit whatever I can. "It wasn't consummated," I point out. "Not really. You were too much of a coward to finish the job."

Salvatore's jaw tightens, and his eyes darken, his gaze sweeping over me once in a way that makes my skin prickle before he seems to regain his composure. "We'll get to it in time," he says stiffly, his tone harsh enough that I know I'm not supposed to argue.

It pisses me off. I'm not used to being sidelined, to not being heard, to being treated as if my opinion comes second to those around me. I'm not used to decisions being made for me. And I resent this decision, the decision about what happens to my body and how it's used, being made for me most of all.

"Are you sure about that?" I taunt, flinging the covers back. Dimly, in the back of my head, I'm reminded that if I taunt him into fucking me, my chances of going back to Pyotr are shattered. But I'm too angry to think clearly, and I want to get under his skin. I want to hurt him, to make him feel as frustrated and furious as I do.

It feels worth it, because I see Salvatore flinch, ever so slightly, as my naked body is entirely revealed to him once again—this time in the bright morning light. "Because if you can't manage it now, I'm not sure I believe you ever will. I'm going to be a virgin forever, aren't I?"

"Stop, Gia." Salvatore stands up, his face impassive, but I see the muscle in his jaw twitch. "You're acting like a child."

"Am I?" I lean back against the pillows, slowly spreading my legs an inch apart, and then another. "Or am I acting like a woman whose husband showed her how pleasurable marriage can be, and then left her cold?" I let my hand slide down the flat of my stomach, down to the soft curls between my thighs. "It sounds like you're going to leave me like that more often than not, now. I'm just going to have to take care of it myself, I guess."

I reach down, my fingers slipping between my folds, spreading them enough that if Salvatore looked, he could see all of the soft pink flesh between my legs. "Are you scared of your virgin bride?" I taunt, rubbing my fingers on either side of my clit. A rush of warmth passes over my skin, a tingle of adrenaline following it, and I realize I'm enjoying this. Really enjoying it. I feel wetness against my fingertips, my clit throbbing, and an ache begins to build. I could get off like this, I realize, and I rub my fingers against the sides of my clit again, letting out a small, mewling whimper. "That's okay," I tell him, enjoying the look on his face. He looks like a man tormented again, like he did last night. Good. If I'm going to endure this, so will he. "My fingers feel better than yours did, anyway."

I lock eyes with him, moving my finger so that it's rubbing against my clit, and toss my head back as I reach down and start to slide two fingers into myself, ready to give myself up to the pleasure?—

—and feel Salvatore's hard grip around my wrists as he snatches my hands away from my body, pinning them over my head.

I let out a frustrated moan before I can stop myself, my teeth gritting at being denied. Salvatore is leaning over me, his jaw tight, and when I look down, I can see that he's hard. "So you're just a coward," I taunt. "You do want me. You're just so guilty that you won't do anything about it."

Salvatore lets out a frustrated growl, deep in his throat, and despite myself, I feel a shiver go down my spine. His hands slide down my arms, still pinning them in place, and for a split second, I think he's going to join me on the bed. That this is the moment he's going to give in, and take what he stole yesterday.

My heartbeat quickens. For a brief moment, I'm not entirely sure if it's out of fear or anticipation.

And then Salvatore grips my arms, more roughly than he has before, jerking me up out of bed and onto my feet. He shakes me once, his gaze dark and angry, and I flinch with surprise. He's never been this rough with me before, and this time, the quick skip of my pulse in my throat is fear. I wonder, briefly, if I've pushed him too far.

"What exactly do you think you're doing, Gia?" Salvatore growls, and I tilt my chin up, refusing to let him break me. To let him frighten me.

"You broke my father's trust," I hiss. "He never intended for me to marry you. For me to be naked in your house, for you to—" I break off, because Salvatore's grip on me tightens, his face taut as he glares down at me.

"Don't you dare." His mouth presses into a thin line, and I feel the edge of the bed press into my thighs, his body close enough to mine that I can nearly feel the texture of his clothing against my bare skin. "Everything I have done is to protect you, Gia! You can continue to protest, to call me a liar, to be ungrateful—but I know the truth. I know why you're here, and it has nothing to do with these…these perverted fantasies?—"

"My perverted fantasies?" I try to wrench out of his arms, but his grip is too tight. "You're the one who had your fingers in me last night, you?—"

"To keep from hurting you!" he roars, his voice filling the space between us until I can't help but shrink back. "You're nothing but a foolish girl who is naive enough to think your precious Bratva prince would have taken even a moment to consider your own body's limits before fucking you exactly as he pleased."

"Don't talk about Pyotr that way!" I scream back in his face, still struggling in Salvatore's grip, and he lets out a disgusted snort before letting go of me, taking a step back.

"You're deluded." He shakes his head. "Your father indulged you too much, but now I'm your husband, and I'm not going to do the same. Last night was about duty. The pleasure I gave you was to prepare you, so that I wouldn't hurt you when I took your virginity. It wasn't about my own desire."

A muscle leaps in the side of his jaw, and I still don't believe him. "Your cock is hard," I hiss. "You're a fucking liar."

He looks at me with something, that, for a brief second, almost looks like a flicker of contempt. For me, or for himself. "Your ignorance clearly extends to how a man's body works, Gia, despite your filthy mouth and overactive imagination." He takes another step back. "I've had enough of this. There's no argument to be had here, and I won't waste my time bickering. You don't understand, clearly, but you don't need to. You are my wife now, and I will handle things."

Rage boils up in me again, spilling over. "I won't be—handled like this! You can't just tell me what to do, make these decisions?—"

Salvatore chuckles, but there's no mirth in it, as if he's not enjoying this any more than I am. "I can, and I will, Gia. Now get dressed. I'll give you a tour of your new home. Our home," he adds.

And then he turns, walking away from me and striding out of the room. I hear the lock click, and I let out a frustrated scream from between my teeth as I grope for the nearest thing on the nightstand—an alarm clock.

I throw it against the wall, and watch it shatter.