Collateral (Collateral Damage 1)

“Don’t you ever try putting your hands on me again!”

I twist my fingers and she makes a small, pained sound.

“I’ll put my hands on you whenever and wherever I like. You belong to me, remember?”

“Last I checked you can’t own another human being.”

“That’s another point you’re wrong on. See, you’re in my world now. And in my world, I make the rules and you obey them. I. Own. You.”

With that, I spin the chair around and sit her back down facing me. I cup the back of her head and hold her to me as I search her browser’s history over her head. She didn’t have time to wipe it clean and I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at her search results, although I am surprised she searched in Italian.

I make a mental note of the fact. Note the fact that she hasn’t mentioned that she understands Italian but that’s my bad. I made an assumption. I underestimated my fiancée.

That won’t happen again.

My teeth grit as I scroll through the results. Although I know there isn’t much for her to find, seeing my brother’s name linked with her father’s, seeing the few details publicly available, it still irritates me. But it’s not those things that piss me off.

It’s when I notice the little message icon pop up with a brand-new message. When I read it, I realize why she looked so guilty this afternoon. When I walked into her bedroom to find her sitting on the bed with her iPod, I’d assumed she was listening to music.

Again, I underestimated her.

It’s just a one-word text in response to her longer one from someone named Alex and it simply reads “Okay.”

Her question to him makes my blood boil and it takes all I have to keep my face neutral.

“I’m in Rome and not too far from you. I need to see you. Please. I promise no one will find out. Tonight may be my last chance.”

Who the fuck is Alex?

I close it all down and draw back to look at her.

I knew I’d have to test her. And I’m sure this will be the first of many such tests.

So why do I feel a sense of betrayal? What did I expect?

Placing my hands on either side of her on the desk, I cage her in and lean in close.

What she sees in my eyes must frighten her because hers go wider, and she leans as far away from me as she can.

“If you want information on my brother, all you need to do is ask me. Don’t go behind my back and don’t lie to me. Do you understand?”

She looks surprised but nods. “I didn’t think you’d tell me,” she says, her voice sounding hoarse like her throat is dry. Or maybe that’s relief I hear.

I study her for a long minute, then step away, giving her space.

“I have a meeting with your father, but I’ll have a driver take you back to my uncle’s house.”

Her eyes search mine like she can’t fucking believe it’s going to be this easy.

“Thank you.”

I hate being lied to. I fucking hate it. And I hate being lied to by someone in my own house. It’s what brought our family down once. The thing that ripped it apart. I won’t have it again.

Granted, Gabriela isn’t with me by choice, but she will be my wife. If she’s fucking this Alex asshole, I will put a stop to it, and I will punish her. I will not be deceived. And my wife, no matter the circumstances of our marriage, will absolutely not sleep in any other man’s bed. Ever.

I hold out my hand, palm up, and give her a false smile, amazing myself with the calm exterior because inside, I want to wring her pretty little neck.

Her eyes haven’t left mine, but it takes her a long moment before she places her hand inside mine and rises to her feet. I walk her out of her bedroom and down the stairs to the front door. I call one of my men.

“Take her home,” I tell him in Italian, not making any acknowledgement that I know she understands what I’m saying while she keeps her face blank as if she doesn’t understand a word.

The soldier nods, gestures for Gabriela.

She takes a step, but I catch her by the wrist. I step to her and tilt her face up to mine.

She stares up at me probably wondering if I’m changing my mind or playing some trick on her.

“Sleep well,” I tell her, and lean down to give her a long kiss on the mouth. Our first.

I don’t force her lips open. I don’t slide my tongue inside. This isn’t that.

Instead, I imagine Judas’ betrayal of Jesus, not that I consider myself a martyr. Far from.

But I think about that kiss in the garden.