Chapter 10

Isabella

I can't sleep. I'm wide-the-fuck awake. Vance is a pain in my ass, so why do I also view him as such a conquest? Something I want to conquer. No. Something I need to conquer.

If he were any other man, he'd have taken me by now, especially considering all the times I've thrown myself at him.

He's more dedicated to preserving my purity than I am, and I'm the one it belongs to. Well, it's a part of me, but it doesn't belong to me. It belongs to him. My future husband. The man who will set me on a path to become a bitter woman like my mother.

If my father knew how unhappy my mother was, maybe he wouldn't try to arrange my marriage like his father did for him. Marrying for prosperity clearly works so well. But at what expense?

My free will?

My happiness?

Fuck, Antonio is likely elated to have me as his wife. He can take out his harbored anger toward my family on my body. I'll get punished for things I had fuck all to do with.

I toss and turn and stare at the faint light on the camera Vance has aimed at my bed. No, I won't play with his mind, because doing so plays with mine as well. And I'm too fucking depressed. The more I think about what I had in my life versus what I will have, the worse I feel.

I climb out of bed and walk to the door. I can't help but wonder if he's already aware of my movements as I step into the hallway and head toward his room. When I get to his door, I half expect to open it and find him inside, awake and furiously wondering why I'm out of bed.

But when I sneak into his room, he's asleep. His shoulders are bare above the blanket, and he's turned away from me.

I make my way across the room and lift the blanket so I can slide into bed behind him. I've never slept with anyone who wasn't a girl or my parents, but as I scooch in behind him, his body heat calls to me. It's something I didn't realize I needed until I felt the warm draw.

For being a fucking bodyguard, he's stone asleep as I nestle up to him. I could be a murderer for all he knows.

"Why, Isabella?" his deep voice asks.

"Why what?"

He scoffs. "Why are you in my bed?" Despite the question, he doesn't turn to face me.

"When I used to have trouble sleeping, I always climbed into my father's bed."

"Daddy's bed, eh?" He finally turns onto his back.

I smirk. "Maybe."

He doesn't move at first, just keeps his eyes locked on the ceiling. "Why can't you sleep?"

"My impending marriage."

"Is it really so bad to have more money than you know what to do with? To marry into generations of wealth and power?"

Heat teases the backs of my eyes. He's making me sound like a whiny brat. "You have no idea what it's like to be a wife to someone like Antonio. My mother was put into the same situation, and she lost herself to that subservient role. You have to mourn who you once were as you become who you have to be."

Frustration and anger lace each word.

He probably expects me to leave, but when I don't—because I'm a glutton for him—he slips his arm beneath me and pulls me against his broad chest.

"You're right. I don't know what it's like to lose myself to an unhappy marriage, but I know what it's like to lose sight of myself in the big world families like yours have built."

My warm breath washes over his chest and pebbles his skin. His muscles tense and loosen beneath my head.

"What do you need me to do, Isabella?"

"Kill my future husband, I guess." I scoff, only half joking.

His gaze drops from the ceiling and falls on me. His eyes harden and darken. "I don't do those things anymore, little girl."

Anymore? Was there a time in his life when he casually killed people?

I swallow.

The more the thought runs through my mind, the more plausible it seems. The more plausible it becomes, the less disgust I feel. It's kind of fucking hot.

But Vance Lore is not going to kill anyone for me or anyone in my family, because he hates people like us. Aside from professional ventures, he avoids our kind at all costs.

"Of course not. I wasn't really asking you to kill him," I say before his hand brushes down my side.

"Why are you in my bed, Bella?" he asks again, his breath teasing the back of my neck. "You aren't the type who needs comforting. If you sat up and thought about your miserable marriage, you'd just catch your bed on fire with your anger, not tuck tail to come into my bed."

My hand clenches around a loose corner of his shirt. He's not wholly wrong, but instead of catching my bed on fire, my anger about my impending marriage made me want him. Not his comfort. Just him.

"I don't want your comfort." I rip away from him and sit up. The moment I try to rise to my feet, his hand reaches for my shoulder and tugs me back.

"Don't be a brat," he whispers. "Comfort doesn't always mean something bad. I don't think you're sad or scared. I think you want to be touched."

"I sure the fuck do not." I try to pull away from his stoney grasp.

He lifts his hand and shrugs. "Oh, I must have read this wrong. Sorry."

He goes to turn over, and the way he flips shit around on me enrages me. I'm used to having everything on my terms.

Which is why I'll be a terrible fucking wife.

"Wait." The word squeezes out of a throat that does not want to beg for attention. But I can't stop myself.

He ignores me and draws a deep breath.

I scoff and lean over, draping my arm across his waist and lowering my hand toward his cock. The moment I graze the hard, swollen head through his boxers, he rips my hand away. I pull free from his grasp and get out of his bed with a huff.

I've come to the damning conclusion that if I was dying and the only thing that could cure me was his dick, he'd let me fucking rot.