I didn’t know what to say, but I wasn’t ready to accept this.

“I don’t know how to cook,” I blurted, before looking at Nicolas, who still leaned against the wall, his hands in his pockets.

“I have one,” was all he said in a deep, thoughtful voice. I had a feeling he didn’t entirely want this marriage either, so why had he agreed to it?

“I like to shop. I spend way too much money.” It was true, but I also donated to the local shelters just so I wouldn’t feel so bad about my spendthrift ways. So I guessed that meant I spent even more.

“I have it.”

Was he only going to speak to me in three words now that he owned me?

“Enough, Elena,” Papà cut in. “Go.”

A frustrated sound traveled up my throat, but I kept it locked in. “I don’t want this,” I told my papà, my voice quiet. I avoided Nicolas’s gaze, though it burned my cheek like a rash.

“It is done.” Papà copied my tone, but his words were final.

So I left his office, headed to my room, and, while packing a bag, I contemplated how I could ever survive Nicolas Russo.

“Lust will be the death of us.”

—Unknown

THERE WAS NOTHING BUT SILENCE. In fact, the quiet seemed to eat at me the entire drive. And the worst thing about it was his car smelled so damn good. The events of today hit me like whiplash, leaving a numbness behind that only his masculine scent seemed to penetrate. Instead of the prickling feeling of panic, his close proximity and the idea of his hands on me were driving me insane.

It was as though my body focused on the primal aspect I’d been craving so I wouldn’t be traumatized by the event. A protective mechanism.

I was equating marrying Nicolas to severe trauma.

Truly, it didn’t seem far apart.

There was a difference between lusting after a man and wanting him to be the father of your children. The idea pulled me in two resilient directions: thrill, and terror.

The feelings were so tenacious I remained only numb, leaving room for one thing. Warmth hummed between my legs, my skin a nesting ground for electricity and ice.

My mamma had watched me walk out the door with Nico carrying my bag, her eyes wide as if I were being sent to the slaughterhouse. Even my sister had rushed down the stairs, mouthing, “I’m sorry,” before the door shut behind me. Papà never came out of his office, and Tony and my cousins only watched Nico like he was stealing something.

I wanted to stay detached from this man, as indifferent as I possibly could, but as the city passed before my eyes in a blur of concrete and bright sun and we grew closer to his place, impassive was not a word I would even recognize.

When we pulled up to a familiar red-brick house, my throat grew tight. “Why not the penthouse?”

“Expecting something more lavish?”

My eyes narrowed. “What? No. I just expected the penthouse. That’s what you chose for Adriana.”

“It’s not what I choose for you.”

I tensed. He wasn’t letting me forget he owned me now, and it cut through the numb haze that caged me.

I didn’t know what to feel: nervous, terrified, determined to keep some autonomy, or aroused by the possibility of his hands on me. It became a mixture of all four, dancing along my skin as I got out of the car.

Nico grabbed my bag from the backseat, and I followed him into the house. It was larger than it looked from the outside. The back door entered into the kitchen, with steel appliances, gray granite countertops, and low lighting.

An office sat to the right of me, the cherry desk visible through the cracked door. Except for that and a small bathroom and laundry room to my left, the space was an open floor plan, with a staircase running upstairs. You could watch the flat-screen TV while standing at the island. It was simple, masculine, and comfortable.

I swallowed when he shut the back door with an unmistakable click. I was still in shock about this turn of events and didn’t know how to process it completely, or at all. I was going through the motions while my thoughts lagged behind.

He dropped my bag into an armchair and then his keys on the kitchen counter. This place might look the epitome of comfortable, but I had no idea how I would ever feel that way in his space.

I stood planted next to the door, while he poured himself a drink from the minibar near the front windows. A strong feeling consumed me that if I moved, something would attack me—maybe him. The curtains were closed, and only small shards of light got through, leaving the room dimly lit.

It was nine o’clock in the morning and he was drinking whiskey. I prayed he wasn’t an alcoholic. He might have stopped my uncle from hitting me last night, but knowing a few alcoholics, especially on my mamma’s side, nothing about them was predictable.

He wore all black, and the way he looked at me from across the room made me fully aware of his reputation. He was the most dangerous man in the city, and soon I would have to call him Husband.

He watched me as he leaned against the small bar, and the longer he did it my heart pumped faster, pushing nerves through my veins.

The thoughts I would have processed over a matter of time all rushed in at once. I wondered how many women he had been with, what he expected of me. I wasn’t a virgin, but I wasn’t far from one. I’d had sex with one man, and only enough to fill a weekend. I was inexperienced and worried he would chew me up and spit me out.

He pulled on his tie while walking into the kitchen. He set his tumbler on the island, then looked at me. “You gonna stand near that door all day?”

I swallowed and nodded.

With his hands braced on the counter, he gave his head a small shake. My stomach fluttered when he glanced at me, his eyes molten.

“Come here.”

I didn’t think it was possible for any woman to ignore that command from him. I had an awful, awful impulse to listen.

With an erratic heartbeat, I took the short steps toward him.

As soon as I reached him, he grabbed my nape, threaded his fingers into my hair, and then buried his face in my neck. He made a masculine noise of satisfaction that I could feel deep in my stomach, before it settled into a weight between my legs. I rocked back, not fighting him, but shaken with this lightning bolt exploding in my chest and fizzing through my veins.

My breasts pressed against his hard, warm abs and a shiver rolled through me. He ran his face up and down my neck, as though he was savoring my smell, or maybe languishing in the fact that he’d caught his next meal.

“Fuck. You feel good,” he groaned against my throat.

He wrapped an arm around my waist and lifted me, setting me close to eye-level on the island. The counter was cold against my thighs as he stepped between them, forcing them further apart.

My heartbeat drummed in my ears, and a cold sensation crept through me. Fear. He pressed his lips to my throat, kissing a slow line down it. Each one sent a sizzle between my legs, and I tilted my head to give him more access, a moan escaping my lips.

This man had changed roles from a tempting someone I couldn’t have, to owner, lover, and fiancé. The whiplash had given me no time to act but on instinct alone. I wanted him, but at the unknown, a cool breath of fear dripped into my subconscious.

I grasped the edge of the counter on both sides of me, trying to ground myself to earth somehow, while he worked my neck with slow kisses and scrapes of his teeth. As his presence consumed my own, my reservations dissolved into smoke.