Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 105679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“She must have been proud.”
“Thank you.” I sat across from him. The silence stretched between us, comfortable yet charged with unspoken words.
“Your arm,” Matteo said suddenly, reaching across to touch the vertical scar across my forearm. “How did you get that?”
His fingers were gentle, so unlike Adrian’s rough touch.
“Just a small…incident. Nothing to worry about.”
Matteo reached up, his fingers lingering over the tiny, almost invisible scar on the bridge of my nose. Years have almost faded the scar, but it was still there, noticeable to those who paid attention.
I didn’t pull away from this touch, though I felt nothing at the contact. No spark, no connection. Just the clinical observation that his hands were surprisingly softer than his brother’s.
His hand lingered there a moment too long before falling away. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
He returned to his eggs, finishing them quickly. “Adrian’s hatred for me has made you a target. He’s trying to hurt you because of me.”
His words hung between as I didn’t respond.
I wasn’t sure what to say.
Adrian was my husband… and as his perfect wife, I wasn’t supposed to speak ill of him to others.
I stood and gathered our empty plates, carrying them to the sink. The warm water washed away the remnants of our meal, just as I wished I could wash away the past several weeks.
But everything had been tainted. With lies. Vengeance. Resentment. Wrath.
There was no washing this stain away.
It was our life now.
I reached for the bowl, taking another strawberry. It was my fifth, and I couldn’t get enough of them. The juices, both tangy and sweet, coating my tongue.
“You don’t deserve this,” Matteo said, appearing behind me. His hand came to rest on my lower back, the touch surprising me. “You deserve better.”
I turned to face him, and he crowded into my space, his body too close, making his intentions clear.
I took a step back, hitting the edge of the counter. “I can take care of myself, thank you for your concern.”
“He doesn’t deserve you,” Matteo insisted, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“And you do?” The words came out sharper than I intended. Adrian and Matteo were one and the same, from the same blood, cut from the same thread.
Pain flashed across his features. “You were supposed to be mine.”
“Matteo…” My words trailed off when he took my hand, bringing it up to his chest, placing it over his beating heart.
The steady thud beneath my palm was strong, insistent. “I was willing to give you my heart,” he said, his eyes darkening. “But then I found you in my brother’s bed.”
“How cozy.”
The voice cut through the kitchen like a blade.
I looked over Matteo’s shoulders and found my husband leaning against the wall, his ankles crossed casually.
His expression was deceptively calm, but his eyes, those cold blue eyes, burned with something darker—a quiet, lurking menace.
“I wasn’t expecting to see my wife and brother together in my kitchen this morning,” he drawled, pushing off from the wall.
Matteo straightened, releasing my hand, his mask of civility sliding into place. “Serafina was just fulfilling her duty as your wife. She welcomed me in and made me something to eat.”
Adrian’s gaze locked with mine, his eyes flashing with possessive fury that he tried to hide behind his typical maddening smirk. “Is that so? She cooked you something. How adorable.”
Oh…
Was my husband jealous?
How interesting.
He moved closer, his presence filling the kitchen, making the air feel thick and charged.
“I didn’t know you enjoy cooking, wife,” he said, voice dripping with mockery. “Maybe I need to get rid of our chef and you can cook my meals from now on.”
“I enjoy cooking once in a while,” I replied ever so politely, keeping my voice steady despite the hammering of my heart. “Not everyday.”
“Hmm.” His lips curved, his grin widening, showing sharp white teeth.
There was nothing polite about that smile.
“So how did cooking end up with you holding my wife’s hand to your chest?” Adrian’s voice was deceptively soft, the calm before the storm.
The tension in the kitchen became palpable, thick enough to choke on, a living thing that crackled between the three of us.
Matteo stepped forward, placing himself between Adrian and me. “It’s not what it looked like.”
“No?” Adrian chuckled darkly. So deceptive. So cruel. “Then what was it, brother? A family bonding moment? Perhaps you were teaching my wife about our family history?”
I moved around Matteo, refusing to hide behind him. My husband didn’t scare me anymore. “We were just talking.”
“Just talking,” Adrian repeated, his eyes never leaving mine. “With your hand on his chest.”
I could feel the weight of unspoken threats, of old wounds and fresh ones, all converging in this moment.
Thud.
This wasn’t the moment. Not yet.
I needed more time…
“Adrian,” I began, but he cut me off with a sharp gesture.
“I think it’s time for my brother to leave,” he said, his voice deadly quiet. “Don’t you agree, wife?”