Ruthless Monarch

I hurry to finish, and then I turn off the water, grab a big fluffy towel, and step outside.

The condensation and steam make it impossible to see. With the towel now wrapped around me, I walk. I don’t make it far before I step into a wall.

“Careful now, Viviana.” His deep baritone voice feels like it’s undressing me.

Startled, I try to step back, but the floor is slick, and I lose my footing.

His hand juts out and steadies me.

“What-what are you doing here?” I hiss as I look up at him. The fog from the steam is now starting to fade. His crisp green eyes are visible and staring down at me.

I feel unnerved by the way he looks at me, and when he smirks that damn smirk, my knees wobble.

I know I should move, but I can’t help but look at this man.

Today, like yesterday, he looks angry. Even with the smirk, it doesn’t reach his mossy eyes.

He stares at me like he wants to undress me, like he wants to pull the towel down and have his way with me. Yet when I look into his eyes, when I study him, all I see is hate.

Is it me he hates? The idea of me? Or my father?

It doesn’t matter. He wouldn’t answer if I asked him. What matters now is pretending to play along. I’ve always been a good actress.

“Morning, dear husband,” I grit out, the sarcasm present in my words. It drips like maple syrup on a pancake. Just as decadent but neither of them very good for you.

“Wife,” he answers, letting his hands linger on my skin far longer than necessary. I look down to where he grasps me. “Princess . . .”

My teeth grind together at that damn nickname I hate, and by the way he looks at me, he knows I despise it too. “Do you mind?” I ask him, my eyes narrowing at the spot where his touch sears me. Making little tiny goose bumps rise across the surface.

“Not at all,” he answers in a casual and lazy voice as if he has nowhere better to be and enjoys driving me crazy. I hope he’ll let me go soon, but he doesn’t. Instead, he holds on to me.

This is going to be a problem.

Finally, I push him and cross my arms in front of my chest. “Why are you in my bathroom?”

“Well”—his brow lifts—“technically, it’s my bathroom.”

If he is going to play that card, so can I. “Oh, since we’re now husband and wife, what’s yours is mine . . . so it’s mine.”

“The same could be said for your belongings.”

He has me there, but then not really. “I have nothing of value,” I counter.

“No. That’s not true . . .”

“Oh, I forget. I’m the pawn.”

“That you are, and don’t forget it. Now get dressed. Be ready in thirty minutes,” he orders as if he wasn’t just flirting with me a second earlier. This man gives me whiplash as if he’s getting paid to do it, and he’s aiming for the employee of the month.

“Where are we going?”

“I have a personal stylist coming to measure you and bring you some clothes. I can’t have you looking the way you did when you first came to my house.”

My mouth drops open. “And how exactly did I look?”

He doesn't answer, instead opting to walk out the door.

“In the closet is an outfit Giana left for you for today.”

“How did I look?” I ask again, not letting him off the hook. Screw that. This is a terrible start for our marriage. Whatever we do right now is going to affect our dynamics for life.

He turns over his shoulder. His gaze starts at my feet and lifts until his eyes meet mine.

I feel naked, even despite the towel.

“Beneath me,” he answers, and then he turns and goes.

My stomach bottoms.

I turn to look at myself in the mirror.

Catching my wounded expression staring back.

What a dick.

In my life, I have met plenty of awful people. But never have I met a man who could be a bigger asshole than my husband.

This should be fun.

9

Matteo

* * *

The first thing I have to do is meet with my men. There is a shipment coming in tonight. It’s not a big shipment, but it’s necessary. Extra guns. Extra ammo. I might not be able to accompany them. It all depends on how tonight goes. I find my man in the surveillance room. All the screens are on on the monitor. Unlike my warehouse in the city, acres of land surround this estate.

No one is getting in unless I want them to.

“What is the ETA on the boat?”

“Cristian says the boat should be docking around one.”

“What time are you meeting the in-laws?” Lorenzo smirks. He is way too entertained by my fresh nuptials.

I give him a look, the type of look that says fuck off. He lifts his hands in surrender.