Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
It's too much. All of it is too much, and I can’t stop the tears from coming. I can’t stand upright and challenge him, and I don’t think I’m strong enough to somehow save Emma and myself.
Amadeo watches me for a long, long time, then he cups my face. There’s that softening of his eyes again. A reprieve from everything, a moment when hate and vengeance are set aside. When I inhale, I smell his clean scent. Soap and aftershave. Leather and spice and strength. I breathe it in.
“She’ll be safe here,” he tells me, tone softer than it’s been. He touches his thumbs to the soft skin beneath my eyes to wipe away the tears, and a part of me wants to melt into his touch. His warmth. The solidity of him. A part of me that needs the relief of it.
“It’s too much,” I mutter.
“You’re tired, Dandelion.”
I am. I’m so tired. I lean my face into his hand and look into his dark eyes. I remember that kiss we shared when he was so angry after finding out I’d taken my father’s ring. I remember the intensity of his eyes. Remember how I felt when he broke that kiss. And I find my lips parting as his gaze drops to them. As he dips his head and touches his mouth to mine in so tender a kiss that I hear myself whimper.
But everything changes the instant he hears that. He breaks off the kiss and pulls me into him, burying my face against his shirt as the hand cradling my head turns into a fist in my hair. I hear the rumble inside his chest, the low growl, and I feel his hardness against my stomach. He feels whatever this is, too. I know he does. But he’s stopping it. Cutting himself off. Like it’s too much for him, too.
“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, princess,” he says, drawing back to look down at me.
I blink. The words make my heart stop beating, my blood turning to ice.
Looking up at him, I make myself see him, the real him. Not the face of the man whose warm hands held me so gently, whose lips kissed mine so tenderly, but the true man beneath. And I don’t know if it’s what he sees in my eyes that has his grow darker, colder or if he’s just discarding the mask he’d slipped on for my benefit as his eyes burn into mine.
Princess. My dad’s name for me. Not Amadeo’s. To him, I’m Dandelion. A weed to be crushed out. I feel the blood drain from my head, and my knees wobble. I clutch at his shoulders to remain upright, and he shifts his grip to my arms.
How much did he witness while I lay trapped in that nightmare? What did I say? What does he know that I can’t ever remember after?
Footsteps coming toward the kitchen distract me. He’s unsurprised, clearly expecting whoever it is because he keeps his gaze locked on me. A soldier clears his throat in the entryway.
“Car’s ready, sir,” he says. “Everyone’s in place.”
I watch Amadeo nod to the man. “We’ll be right out.”
The man walks away. I listen to his retreating footsteps. “Ready for what?” I ask, my heart sinking. Who is everyone? In place for what?
“You and I are taking a drive to the cathedral.”
The cathedral. He must mean San Domenico. The one where my father’s funeral Mass was to be said. The one they raided, interrupting the service and desecrating his body.
“Why?” A cold sweat beads on my forehead and collects under my arms.
“For a happier occasion than the last time.” He takes my ring hand. “It’s time.”
My legs tremble beneath me. I’m not sure if I’m standing on my own or if he’s holding me up. “Time for what?”
“We’re getting married, Dandelion.”
My brain rattles inside my skull. “What? You said… You said it was just an engagement. Just to show…” But the events of the last days are too much. The funeral, the brother’s kidnapping me, that nightmare back again, keeping to its schedule. What I did then. The thing that made my father say those words. Half memories flash in my mind’s eye. Faces, laughter, and blood. Always blood coating the walls, caking them with the gore of human life. “You said it wasn’t real. A fake engagement.”
“You have a very selective memory. You said that. Not me. I told you to believe what you needed to get through that night.” I look down, trying to process. He brings one hand to my chin and tilts my head up. “I’m giving you what you want. What I promised. I’m giving you Emma. Remember that.”
There’s a long space of silence as if he’s letting me absorb his words, then process them. Be grateful for them?