8

Ares.

Fucking archaic tradition.

The door opened, and my wife stepped in, draped in a white robe that did its best to conceal every curve I knew was there. Still… she was breathtaking, and every step she took made it painfully obvious, though her hair—God, that hair—was the first thing my brain went to.

My fist clenched. I hated that color. Did Pietro think I was too blind, too stupid, to notice that the woman I’d married wasn’t the same one I’d met a year ago, just because she’d dyed her hair?

Talia Russo. Second daughter. Twenty-three years old… seven years younger than me and far too perceptive for her own good.

I knew more about her than was appropriate. Her academic record—first class political science graduate with a published paper dissecting power dynamics in closed systems. Her habits. The way she bit the inside of her cheek when she was thinking, down to the exact shade of nude-pink nail polish she favoured.

Obsessing over the sister of the woman I was supposed to marry was a confession I’d never make aloud. Hell, I’d been willing to take it to my grave. But the universe had a particularly cruel sense of humor.

Because now she was mine.

My cock hardened at that thought. I imagined those red, luscious lips wrapped around my cock… imagined bending her over the table and burying my cock deep inside her until she couldn't walk straight.

She stayed frozen, back resting against the door, as if she could read every filthy thought in my head. I could hear her shallow breathing from across the room…. Like a trapped animal trying not to make noise.

Good.

Moving past her, I shrugged out of my jacket and placed it neatly over the back of a chair. I unholstered my silencer, and my knives, setting them beside a vase of white dahlias, and a chilled bottle of champagne with two glasses, then reached for the writing pad on the table, moving my pen smoothly over it.

I turned the pad around and held it up.

Come here.

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, yet made no attempt to move.

I added another command beneath it. ‘Now’

She shook her head. Just once, and that tiny act of defiance sent a flare of something dark through me. I set the pad down, walked toward her, and stopped an arm’s length away. Close enough to feel the tempting warmth of her body. Close enough to remind her that the distance between us existed only because I allowed it. Her pulse fluttered wildly at her throat, and I wondered how she’d taste there.

She pushed herself off the door and took hesitant steps forward. The robe shifted as she walked, revealing flashes of skin I refused to look at directly. When she stopped in front of me, I tilted my head, studying her properly for the first time.

Up close, the resemblance was undeniable, but the eyes never lied. Valentina’s had been vacant, like someone walking through the motions of life while already gone. Talia’s, however… burned. They held fire, desire, a hint of defiance, and memories of the night when I’d first realized wanting her was a dangerous mistake I would never outrun.

Later I would deal with her family's treachery… for now, I wanted to drown myself in this woman I'd fantasized about for the longest time. Grabbing her waist, my fingers tangled in her hair as I pressed my lips to the curve of her neck. She was warm… and soft. So fucking soft. I slid my palm beneath the robe, down the curve of her back to her ass, pulling her flush against me and letting her feel my hardness. Her breath hitched, a soft, involuntary sound she failed to suppress.

My gaze dropped instinctively to her tits, the hardened peaks straining against the thin red camisole, begging for attention.

So fucking beautiful.

So fucking mine.

I wanted to tell her how good she felt, how good I'd make her feel, but the words lodged in my throat. A complication during my birth had partially damaged my vocal cords, and the doctors said I would never speak. What no one knew, except her, was that I could manage to string a few words together, enough to make a point. Regardless, the sound of my own voice was a reminder of everything I lacked… and I hated it.

A sniffle had me pulling back. Her lips trembled, tears rolling down her cheeks. What the fuck?

I grabbed the writing pad.

‘No tears.’

She wiped her eyes, but the tears kept falling. “I'm so sorry. I can't… just give me a minute…”

My cock softened, the heat of arousal replaced with the bitter taste of frustration. Fucking a crying woman held no appeal for me. I was not my father. I wanted consent. I wanted her to meet me halfway. To choose every filthy, delicious thing I planned to do to her body. I wanted screams born of pleasure… not fear.

‘Go to bed.’