Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
The courtyard stands quiet, the indoor pool inside the majestic columns as still as water. The Castle holds no number of surprises.
“Tavi?” I walk quickly past the courtyard, and come to a sudden stop.
He stands in the dining room, the one room that links the library and kitchen together. When I see him, still dressed in his tux as if nothing’s changed from when we took our vows, my heart squeezes.
I found him.
Has anything changed? Or is it only that I’m reminded that nothing has?
Over time, during my lengthy imprisonment and the past few weeks up close and personal with him, I’ve observed that Ottavio Rossi has perfected the man glare, the resting angry face, and the stern glare that would intimidate anyone.
But at the moment he just looks…lost.
“There you are,” he says when he sees me, unable to mask the flood of relief he feels. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” He clears his throat. I can tell he has something to tell me. “It’s… time to cut the cake.”
I blink in surprise. Right. There’s a wedding reception out there, and we’re supposed to perform.
“The cake?” I repeat stupidly, as he makes his way over to me.
I just heard Romeo tell his men to secure someone. I heard someone in the dungeon. But no, none of that matters because… we have to cut the cake.
I want to trust him, but I feel as if there’s a yawning chasm we have to cross before I can get to that point.
“Yes, baby,” he says, but the term of endearment doesn’t soften his harsh tone, or the way his eyes flash at me. “The cake.”
When he reaches me, he grips my upper arm so hard it almost hurts, as if he’s afraid I’ll evaporate and he needs to anchor me here on earth. His fingers graze the nearly invisible bandage under my arm, just tucked under the sleeve of my dress. A stark reminder that only hours ago, he removed my tracking device.
“Alright,” I say, my voice hollow in the enormous room. “Did you…” My voice trails off. No, I’m not going to pry. If I’m going to learn to trust him, I’ll give him space to tell me whatever he needs to in his own time. There will be secrets in this new life of ours. That much I know.
He’s my husband now.
And yet a small thread of fear weaves its way through me. Is he hiding something from me?
“Did I what?” he asks, and his grip loosens a bit and seems to soften.
He’s so handsome in his tux. He shaved for the occasion, but he already sports a five o’clock shadow, so ruggedly handsome it makes me ache for him to touch me.
I yearn to be swallowed whole by him. Utterly, irrevocably consumed. My gaze is fixated on the full lips of his now pressed in a thin line, and the frigid blue of his eyes.
I once thought him cruel, like an angry god. And while I know now he is capable of cruelty, the absence of pride makes him so much more… human.
I reach my hand to his face and cup his chin. “You’re angry. Why are you angry?”
Why can’t this be simple? It never is. Everything in our lives is so damn complicated.
His hands span my waist. I step closer to him.
“I couldn’t find you.” His voice cracks a little, again reminding me of a lost young boy. I want to hold him to me. I want to assure him that I’m not leaving.
“I’m right here, Ottavio. I came looking for you.”
The tension in his shoulders eases, and he leans his forehead to mine. My throat tightens.
“You’re right here,” he repeats. When he pulls away, a worry line still creases his forehead.
Some people, after experiencing what he has, fear they’ll never be capable of true intimacy.
Is that his fear, too?
I saw the pain in his eyes when he told me about the woman who killed herself rather than be married to him.
Does he wonder if he makes life unbearable for others?
Every one of us believes lies that we tell ourselves, lies that fester and plague and sometimes choke us. Lies that keep us from being who we’re truly meant to be.
I wonder at times if the key to true happiness is seeking raw, vibrant, vivid truth. Of finding a way to silence the lies that steal our peace of mind and our hope for the future. For what is anxiety, if not worry of the future? And what is peace, if not content for the present?
“Maybe you should’ve kept that tracker in me,” I say with a teasing smile. “Would that have made you feel better?”
His low growl sends a little jolt of awareness through me.
“Maybe,” he says with a small smile of his own. “And I changed my mind, Elise Rossi.”