A lazy smile breaks on my face as I narrow my green eyes and take another long breath. Her scent invades me like a drug, and I know this is dangerous, that I am being lured like a dumb animal to a trap, drawn in like a bee to honey, facing my downfall in those innocent brown eyes, stumbling towards my doom as I imagine that secret triangle hiding between her thunderous thighs. But I cannot turn away.
If it is a test I must face it. If is a challenge I must conquer it. If it is mine I must seize it, claim it, own it!
“Come,” I say to her softly but with supreme authority. “Two more steps. Stand beside me, Bellanca.”
She blinks as if my voice just snapped her back to reality or something. Only now do I see the odd look in her big brown eyes. It’s a strange sort of fear, and as I study her expression I get the sense of turmoil behind those eyes. I get the feeling she’s turgid with tension, pregnant with panic, like she doesn’t understand why she’s here, like maybe she’s feeling what I’m feeling, feeling this mysterious pull, like we’ve been drawn together by fate, by destiny, by forever.
“Bell,” she whispers, her full lips barely moving as she stares at me like she’s not sure if this is real. “Everyone calls me Bell.” Then she blinks and I see the panic almost break through. Almost. “Wait, if this is a mistake, how do you know my name?”
I frown as my temples throb along with my cock. “There is no mistake,” I say quietly. “I do not make mistakes. No mistake.”
“Um, yeah. That’s what those guys said in the car,” she says, her voice getting stronger as if she’s gaining control of herself, mastering her own emotions, pushing back her panic and facing me in a way nobody’s ever faced me. She widens her eyes and puffs her cheeks out and puts on a fake Greek accent that almost makes me laugh. “No mistake,” she says in a low voice as she imitates the men I sent to pick her up. “I do not make mistakes,” she growls, now clearly imitating me.
“Are you mocking me?” I say, almost puzzled at her boldness. “Do you realize I have killed men for less?”
She snorts and shakes her head like she thinks this is a joke. “OK, now I know this is either a prank or a dream. No way you just seriously said that. What are you, some Greek mafia kingpin? Hah! You know, Grandma would have loved you! In fact in her final days I remember her going off on some random story about how she was born into the Greek Mafia but had to flee the country as a child after her entire bloodline was wiped out by the Italian Mafia or some shit.”
I cock my head and grunt. “Sicilian, actually. The Cosa Nostra. But yes. That is correct. Why do you speak of it like it is a joke?”
She stares, a half-smile breaking on her pretty face as her eyes slowly narrow, like she’s trying to decide if I am serious. “Um, because that’s basically the plotline of the Godfather Part 2, buddy. I mean, they were all Italian in the movie, but same lame-ass, overdone plot. Bloodline wiped out in the old country. The child escapes to America. Rises up to reclaim his birthright.” She snorts and shakes her head. “Grandma watched those movies a million times. In her final years she pretty much lived in that reality. Talked about how she would have been queen of the Greek mafia or some shit. She was a sweetheart, God bless her. But she also lived in her own head a bit too much. It was all the same to her—fantasy and reality. Like a child. I guess that happens when you get close to the end, face the afterlife, look back on what could have been . . . maybe what you wish had been.”
I blink again as I wonder what the fuck is going on with this woman. Does she not know who she is?! “Your grandmother’s maiden name was Bernice Belitrios, yes?” I say as I think back to the letters and documents I received from Bellanca’s grandmother over the past year as we negotiated this arrangement. Letters that were most certainly not written by a senile person. Letters clearly describing events from decades ago, with birth certificates and old court documents from Greece proving her lineage, tracing her bloodline back to the old country, proving beyond a doubt who Bellanca Belitrios is—who she was born to be, whether she knows it or not.
“Blood is destiny, Bellanca. You are who you were born to be,” I whisper, my thoughts effortlessly flowing into words almost like I’m losing track of that boundary between the inner world and outside reality. “Always remember that. You are who you were born to be, Bellanca Belitrios.”
My vision blurs, and I swear I hear the gods roar with laughter as they see me getting sucked in, getting pulled in, giving in to what feels so real that my whole life up to this point might as well have been a dream.
And before I can stop myself I say the words. The words that bubble up from the depths of my body, the recesses of my soul, the hidden places in my heart.
“And what you were born to be is mine,” I whisper as Bellanca moves her lips like a fish out of water, her eyes almost rolling up in her head as if she doesn’t believe what’s happening, doesn’t understand what’s happening, can’t accept who she is. “You were born to be mine, Bellanca. You are mine, Bellanca. You are fucking mine!”
She’s saying something, but I can’t hear shit as that primal need shuts down almost every sense in my body as it takes over, short-circuiting this discussion, sending my entire life careening down a path that could easily lead to my downfall, my destruction, my doom . . .
Or to my destiny.
Then without bothering to hear what she’s saying, I turn to the hired priest and snap my fingers. “Káne mia kínisi, Father. Skip to the end,” I growl from the side of my mouth as I take a step forward, slide my arm around Bellanca’s waist, and pull her so hard into me that she gasps and swoons.
And then as the priest babbles out his blessing, I lean in, grab her by the hair, and kiss her. I kiss her hard, with a power and confidence that I know makes the gods gasp as they watch, like they’re worried that maybe I just passed their fucking test by stepping up and seizing my destiny even though it terrifies me!
“Mine,” I say again, breaking from the kiss just long enough to look into her eyes, see our forever somewhere behind her panic and disbelief. “You understand, Bellanca? You’re mine. It’s done. You’re mine.”
She’s still muttering something as she flails in my arms, and when I finally manage to regain my sense of hearing I realize that she’s babbling to herself.
“Wake up, Bell,” she’s muttering, eyelids fluttering like she thinks this is make-believe, like she’s trying to convince herself she’s in a dream. “Please wake up, Bell. Wake the fuck up!”
3
BELL
“Ah! Thank God I’m awake!” I say as relief washes over me when I feel the pillow beneath my head, smell the clean sheets around me, feel the soft mattress beneath me. “Ohmygod, it was a dream! Wow. It felt real as hell, didn’t it? One of those super-vivid dreams you get where you know you’re dreaming but you can’t wake yourself up, can’t even move! Whew. Ugh. Wow. Damn.”
I make all sorts of noises that can’t be spelled in English, almost cracking myself up, I’m so happy and relieved. Finally I prop myself up against the padded headboard and blink away my brain-fog.
Wait.
Padded headboard?
I don’t have a padded headboard.
I have a cheap-ass IKEA bed made of aluminum or some shit.
Oh. My. God.
This isn’t my bed . . .
This isn’t my bedroom . . .
And this isn’t a fucking dream.
I blink, pray, curse, and then blink again, hoping it’ll all go away when I open my eyes.
But all I see is a dark, shadowy figure slowly coming into focus.
Tall like a tower. Broad like a bridge. Hair wild and untamed like a beast of pure darkness. Green eyes intense and focused like beams of ethereal light.
Focused on me.
“No,” I whisper as the dread rolls through me like waves of that same darkness. “No!”
It’s him.
<
br /> “No,” I whisper again, pulling the sheets up to my chin as I stare at this mountain of a man standing at the foot of the bed like a silent guardian at the Gates of Hades. I feel my heart skip four beats and then start pounding so hard I wouldn’t be surprised if it jumped out and started doing Zorba’s Dance on the sheets, spurting blood everywhere as it giggled and squealed like this is some twisted cartoon.
“No!” I scream, kicking off the sheets and blankets and jumping out of bed, wondering if I should just leap out of the window head-first! They say that if you die in your dream you wake up, right? Unless it’s Nightmare on Elm Street, of course. “Get away from me!” I scream again, kicking at the heavy comforter which feels like a slab of stone right now.
“Get away from you? I am nowhere near you,” he says, smiling as he rubs the thick black stubble on his brutishly square jaw. His olive skin is shining in the golden light of this room, and even as I scream and stumble off the bed in the most unladylike manner possible, for some reason I’m still locked in on his eyes, eyes that are dark green like the ocean during a rainstorm. “And I barely touched you even when I was near you.”
“Barely?!” I shriek, running to the wall and slamming my palms against it like some hysterical child throwing a tantrum. “That means you did touch me!”
The man rubs his jaw again and grins like this is totally fucking amusing to him. I almost laugh out loud at myself when I realize I must look a sight in my crumpled black dress, my hair as wild and untamed as his, my eyes all crusty, face probably all shiny from not exfoliating last night. Oh, and I’m beating my fists against the wall like a deranged child in a mental institution. Maybe I should stop doing that if I want him to stop laughing at me?
He shrugs, his feet firmly rooted in the carpet, his shoulders squared, back straight, eyes focused, everything about him oozing poise and confidence even though I know he’s gotta be nuts, right?
“I claimed my bride,” he says with a lazy grin. “Are you so far removed from your roots that you find that strange?” Then he loses the grin. “And of course I had to hold you when you fainted in my arms. And then when I carried you up to our hotel suite. And when I put you into bed and—”
“OK, just . . . just stop, all right! Just . . . just . . . I mean, who are you?” I blurt out, all the words coming at once. I shake my head and look at my hands, wincing when I see a chipped fingernail from clawing at the wallpaper like a psycho.
Then the wince turns to an expression that makes my face hurt when I see a ring on my left hand. A gigantic diamond ring that’s so big and shiny I simply blink and straight-up refuse to acknowledge its existence. I didn’t see that. Nope. Not happening. Somehow I manage to smile when I realize I’m actually really good at denying shit that’s shining at me like the freakin’ Dog Star. Awesome. Maybe I’ll be able to imagine myself out of this madness. Or perhaps argue my way out, at least. “No, seriously. Who are you, and how can you possibly be so stupid that you haven’t figured out this is a case of mistaken identity?!”
Those green eyes of his flash dark, and I gasp when I see his massive body stiffen. He raises his chin and swallows like he’s trying to control himself, hold back his anger.
“Do not call me stupid again, Bellanca,” he says softly, with a seriousness that makes my toes curl up. I blink as an image pops into my head . . . an image of him bare-chested like some beast of the jungle, heavy pectorals like slabs of dark marble, arms like tree trunks, palms big and meaty as he growls and advances, muttering something about claiming his bride, maybe taming his bride! Ohmygod, I have lost my mind!
He’s still talking when I manage to push away the vision of him taking me over his shoulder and bounding up the steps of some Greek palace as I shriek and wail and giggle all at once. “And yes, Bellanca. I have indeed figured out this is a case of mistaken identity. Except it is you who are mistaken. Mistaken about your own identity.”
“Oh, right. Because you don’t make mistakes,” I say, rolling my eyes as I force myself to keep talking. Because if I keep talking, maybe I’ll stop thinking. Is it working? Nope. I’m still thinking. Can you think in a dream?
“No, Brakos does not make mistakes. Not even in a dream,” he says with that lazy grin. He gestures with his head towards an elegant wooden table near the bed. On it stands a tall glass of some misty liquid. The glass is perfectly placed in the center of the table, on a wooden coaster like it’s a setup for a Home and Lifestyle photo shoot. “Drink that, Bellanca,” he says, his tone effortlessly commanding, like he would have to make an effort to not be commanding, if that makes any sense.
“Drink something offered by a random dude in a hotel room? Um, yeah. Sure. Immediately.” I roll my eyes and snort, crossing my arms under my boobs and trying to stand as tall as I can, look as elegant and poised as possible—which is kinda hard when you’ve got crumpled bedsheets wrapped around your ankles and you haven’t showered or even brushed your teeth. “You know, I think Brakos must be stupid if he thinks I’m gonna just—”
But the sentence ends with a gasp, and before I understand what’s happening Brakos has fucking leapt across the room and pulled me onto the soft bed, throwing me down with such force I literally bounce three inches off the mattress like it’s a trampoline!
And then he’s on me, holding me down with his body, pinning my arms above my head as I hyperventilate from the pure shock of how fast he moved, how effortlessly he lifted me off my feet and tossed me onto the bed like I’m a ragdoll! I can tell he’s angry, but he’s somehow still in control, like he knew exactly what he was doing, knew exactly where to hold me so I wouldn’t get hurt.
I’m still breathing hard as I stare up into Brakos’s green eyes. I can feel his hard body pressing against mine, his muscles lining up with my curves almost like we were designed for each other. His masculine musk invades me as I breathe, and I gasp again as I feel myself heat up beneath my black dress, feel my secret wetness ooze from my slit as if my body’s totally just surrendering to his dominance, simply opening up for him!
“What are you doing?” I whisper, blinking as I look up at him. He’s ruggedly handsome, brutish and swarthy but simultaneously oozing elegance and even royalty. His bone structure looks like it was chiseled from a picture. Strong jawline. High cheekbones. Thick, dark red lips. Damn, our kids will be beautiful, won’t they?
Ohmygod, why did I just think that, I wonder in shock as I suddenly become aware of Brakos’s erection lined up perfectly with my mound that’s now shamelessly wet, straight-up dripping through my panties like my slit is wide open, like it’s just smiling in glee.
Is my pussy talking to me now? I think as I feel Brakos’s body stiffen, see his jaw tighten, those green eyes narrow until he suddenly blinks and looks away like something just occurred to him.
And then he’s off me, pulling back with the same smooth, silent grace of an animal. He shakes his head and turns away from me, muttering something in Greek under his breath. As he turns I see the profile of his peaked trousers, and I almost come all over the bed when I see how massively aroused he is.
Aroused for me.
“Elénxte ton eaftó sas, zóo,” he grunts, finally turning back to me. “Do not worry. I will not hurt you. I will not touch you like . . . like that. This is not that sort of marriage, all right?”
“Then what sort of marriage is it?” I say, frowning as I remind myself that by asking that question I’m kinda assuming that we’re already . . . married? “Oh, wait. It’s no sort of marriage, because we’re not married.”
“We were married yesterday, Bellanca,” he says without skipping a beat. “Get used to it.”
“Um, firstly, this isn’t Vegas, buddy. Secondly, I didn’t sign a marriage certificate, so even if we were in Vegas, having some fake priest mutter some words doesn’t mean shit. Not in America, at least.”
Brakos steps over to the wooden coffee table and grabs a piece of
paper. He holds it up, and I gasp when I see that it’s a marriage certificate.
“Right here, Bellanca,” he says, holding it to my face and pointing at a signature that’s most certainly not mine even though it is my name. My full name—Bellanca—which I never use because it sounds like it’s from like the 1920s.
“You and I both know I didn’t sign that,” I say firmly, trying to ignore the strangely warm feeling I get when I see my name right beneath Brakos’s elegant signature. Kinda like I was just beneath Brakos himself not so long ago . . .
OK, stop it!
Focus!
“You fainted in my arms when I claimed you. So I signed for you,” he says. “Same thing. A husband has the authority to sign for his wife.”
“OK, firstly, I don’t faint like some chick in a romance novel,” I snap. “Secondly, who says things like I claimed you?! Did I just travel back in time? Am I on a different planet?” I stare at the marriage certificate again and snort. “And finally, even if I ignore the sexism in your belief that a husband has the authority to sign his wife’s name on a legal document, it can’t apply to the document that actually makes me your wife! That’s circular logic! Only an idiot would actually believe—”
I wince and almost bite my tongue off when I see that telltale anger flash in his green eyes. But this time there’s also a smile on his thick lips. A smile of triumph. A smile of superiority. A smile of power, dominance, victory.
“Good,” he says softly when I realize that I just stopped myself from calling him an idiot without him having to say a damned word! “You are learning, Bellanca.”
Now I feel my own anger bubbling up. I’m no pushover, and I realize that with one look he got me to stop talking mid-sentence like I’m some kitten being trained! Dammit!
I almost rattle off a string of insults just to prove that I’m not a pushover, that I don’t just bow my head and submit when some egomaniac huffs and puffs and glares and glowers. But I can’t do it. I’m actually turned on by his arrogance, even though that’s never been something I liked in a guy. Why is that? Why is this over-the-top alpha nonsense getting me hot between my legs, wet beneath my panties, making my nipples stiffen, my toes curl?
Given to the Groom Page 2