by Maisey Yates
He could no longer wait to see her. And he was a man who never did what he didn’t want to do. He turned and headed back toward her bedroom, flinging the doors open wide without knocking.
Charity looked up, her dark eyes wide with shock, and so did the woman who was kneeling at the hem of Charity’s dress, tugging pins out of the fabric.
Charity’s dark curls were loose and wild, a couple of wildflowers tucked into her glossy mane, bright pink lipstick highlighting her beautiful mouth. The dress was simple, a light flowing fabric that skimmed the increasingly full curves of her body. The dress was tight just beneath her breasts, then looser around her stomach, beautifully displaying the changes that had taken place in her body over the past weeks.
There was something highly sensual about it, and it sent an elemental heat firing through his blood.
His woman, in a wedding gown, pregnant with his child.
All of it increased the intensity of the word that was constantly echoing inside of him, whenever he looked at her. Mine.
“Beautiful,” he said, because it was all he could say.
“You weren’t supposed to come in,” she said, clearly annoyed with him.
“We do all kinds of things out of order. Why would we be expected to observe tradition in this?” he asked, moving deeper into the room.
“Maybe because I asked you not to?” She arched a brow, her tone full of censure.
“I do not take direction well, Charity, a fact you should know by now. Are you finished?” He directed the question to the seamstress.
“Yes, but I will need to take the dress so that I can make the alterations.”
“I will help her undress. You are dismissed,” he said.
The woman nodded and stood, making her way out of the room quickly.
“Well, you are in an extra autocratic mood today.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “Am I different than usual?”
“I guess not.”
“I did not want her in here while I gave you this. Neither did I want to wait to give it to you.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a ring box. “Speaking of things we have done out of order.” He opened it and revealed the ring inside. An emerald that did, indeed, match her necklace.
Charity just stood there staring at him, blinking slowly. “Am I supposed to just take it?”
“Do you want me to put it on you?” He found, that as soon as he said the words, he wanted very much to take her hand in his and slip the ring onto her finger himself.
“It isn’t necessary,” she said, reaching out and taking the ring between her thumb and forefinger. He gritted his teeth against the disappointment that assaulted him. She slipped it onto her fourth finger, and held it out in front of her. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “You have very good taste in jewelry.”
“Yes, well, I am a connoisseur of nice things. That was a compliment by the way.”
She arched her dark brows. “Was it?”
“You do not seem happy with me,” he said.
“Do I not? I am. I’m fine.”
“Do not lie to me. I’m tired of dishonesty between us.”
She let out an exasperated breath. “All right, I’m a little bit dazed. This is all happening very quickly.”
“It has to happen quickly. You said you wanted to get married before the baby was born.”
“I never actually said I wanted to get married,” she said, her words hitting him with the force of a slap.
“And I do not recall asking,” he said, his words hard.
“No, you didn’t.”
He turned away from her and began to pace the length of the room. “But you want this.”
“Does it matter?”
He whirled back around. “What are your other options? To go back to your hovel in Brooklyn? To go to prison?”
“I don’t have other options,” she said, her tone grave.
For some reason a piece of memory hit him. Strangers picking him up, carrying him out of his house.
“Everything will be fine,” he said, almost in time with the strangers in his head.
Everything will be okay.
But nothing was ever okay again.
“I’m sure it will be,” she said, her dark eyes blank.
“What is wrong with you? You were fine last time we spoke about this. You were fine this morning.”
“It all feels very real now.”
“So the past few weeks of living with me, carrying my child, sharing a bed, did not feel real?”
“You know what I mean. This feels permanent.” She blinked more rapidly now, her brown eyes getting glossy. “In some ways I can’t really believe the past four months have happened at all. And I can’t believe... Never mind.”
“No. Tell me.”
“Or what? You’ll have me thrown in prison?”
“If I were you it would be a very real concern.”
“But it isn’t a concern. Because I’m doing what you ask.”
Her words landed in that hollow place inside of him, that empty void that he seemed to be becoming more and more aware of. A void that had been hiding for years, one that he had hidden beneath his status, his collections, his possessions. Things that he could see now had done nothing to actually fill that void.
“See that you continue to do so.” He turned away from her, and she reached out and put her hand on his forearm, her fingers curling into the sleeve of his shirt. “What?” he asked.
“Do you want to marry me?” He turned to look at her, and was hit full on with the force of the emotion in her dark eyes. “I mean, do you want to be with me? Or is this just you doing what you can to keep control?”
“Of course I want control.”
“Are you going to be faithful to me?”
He hadn’t specifically thought about it, not since their initial conversation when he had said he would continue to behave as he had always done. But, the truth was he had no desire to be with anyone else.
“Yes, and you will be faithful to me,” he said.
“Another edict?”
“It damn well is,” he said through gritted teeth.
“You didn’t answer my first question, though. Do you want me?”
He lifted his hand and cupped her cheek, tracing her lower lip with his thumb. It was so soft. She was so soft, all over. And he could not imagine a time when he didn’t crave her. When his body didn’t ache for her. “I have you.”
And with that, he turned and walked out of the room.
* * *
Charity watched Rocco walk out, leaving her standing there with a hollow feeling in her stomach. Her legs began to shake, and she crumpled onto the floor, her dress billowing out around her.
She looked down at her hand, at the ring that Rocco had just presented her with. He had not put it on her finger. Of course, she hadn’t allowed him to. But honestly, what good was it to have a man put a ring on your finger when you had to ask him to do it? He should have wanted to do it. In an ideal world he would’ve wanted to.
But this was not an ideal world. And their relationship wasn’t real. Not to him.
She had to keep reminding herself that their relationship had started with a bag of lingerie and a threat. But it was so hard to remember that now, now when she felt so close to him. Now when she felt as if her next breath depended on having him with her.
The problem was she wanted more. She didn’t want his ownership. She wanted his love. It felt nice at first, him saying she was his. Because no one had ever given her even that much. She had been a burden, not something anyone desired. But she was coming to realize that his wanting to possess her was not the same as him loving her.
And she wanted him to love her. She didn’t want this desperate o
bsession, this compulsion he seemed to have to hang on to what he felt was his.
She wanted emotion. She wanted desire.
She had wanted to be loved all of her life, and she didn’t want to spend the rest of it wishing for the same thing and getting nothing in return.
But she was trapped.
Unless she changed something.
Which was not going to happen while she sat here on her knees like someone in the throes of an emotional breakdown. Well, okay, so she kind of felt like someone in the throes of an emotional breakdown, but she wasn’t helpless. And behaving like a helpless person was unacceptable.
She pushed herself up off the floor and adjusted her skirt, walking out of her bedroom and looking both ways down the corridor, searching for Rocco. She didn’t know why, but she had the feeling he had gone to his room. He had never invited her into his room. It was one of his sacred spaces, and she was discovering he had a few of them.
Another bit of evidence that he didn’t love her. There were too many parts of his life that he kept secret from her. That he kept only for himself.
Another thing that was about to end.
She walked down the hall, in the direction of his room, her teeth gritted in determination.
Thankfully, he did not have a keypad installed on his bedroom door. She turned the handle and pushed the door open, letting herself in with no announcement at all. Rocco was standing by his bed, undoing the cuffs on his shirtsleeves. He lifted his head and turned to face her when she walked in, his expression fierce.
“What are you doing in here?”
“I didn’t come to vacuum,” she said, keeping her tone even.
He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Speak.”
“What if I told you I didn’t want to get married?”
“I would tell you that’s too damn bad.” He dropped his arms back down at his sides. “Is that all?”
“I don’t want to get married,” she said, injecting as much steel into her voice as she could.
“Why are you telling me this now? While you’re wearing your dress? It all looks a bit late for protesting, don’t you think?”
Her heart burned in her chest, screaming at her to stop. Because she did want to get married. She wanted to marry him. She wanted to spend her life with him. But not under these circumstances. Not as a part of his plan for revenge, or possession, or restitution, or whatever this was. She wanted him to marry her because he wanted her. Because he loved her. Because he wanted to make a life with her.
“I don’t think it’s too late to protest until the marriage vows have been spoken.” She took a deep breath. “With things as they are now, I don’t want to marry you.”
“You do not have a choice, cara mia,” he said, lifting his hand and undoing the cuff that was still buttoned, rolling his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. “The decision has been made. And unless you want me to press charges...”
“So we’re still at threats then, are we?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“But I am your prisoner. Not your fiancée. I need you to understand that.”
He reached out and grabbed hold of her wrist, lifting her hand in the air so that the light caught on the gem sparkling on her finger. “This suggests otherwise.”
“But a fiancée can leave whenever she wants without the threat of jail time hanging over her head. A prisoner cannot. Don’t lie to yourself, Rocco. Don’t pretend this is something it isn’t. Things haven’t changed. On your end, they haven’t changed. They are exactly the same as they’ve been from the beginning. You making demands, making threats if I don’t comply with them. Even though I want you, it’s always going to be colored by that. It’s always going to be colored by the fact that I don’t have another choice. So I’m telling you now, I do not want to be your wife.”
He tugged her forward, lowering his head and kissing her, deep, hard. And she kissed him back, pouring every ounce of emotion into the kiss, her anger, her love, letting him have it all. And everything she gave, he took.
When they parted, they were both breathing hard. “It does not matter what you want. You will be my wife. That is final. Now, get out of my room and do not return here unless you’re given an invitation.”
Charity swallowed the lump made of grief and misery that was rising in her throat. “Okay. As long as we have an understanding.”
“You are the only one who needs to understand.”
She nodded once, and then turned and left him alone in his room. A wave of sadness, combined with an intense feeling of finality stole over her. And she had no idea what she felt at all. Because she wanted to be with him, and she had accomplished that.
But she wanted him to feel differently. And she couldn’t force him to.
She was starting to think that a life with Rocco, with his emotions firmly cut off from her, would be much lonelier than a life without him.
But she would never find out. Because she did not have a choice. Or rather, she did. She could leave and test him, make him prove that he would send her to prison. But as much as she believed he wouldn’t...could she risk it? She was guilty, and there was no denying it.
And if she were in prison what would it mean for her baby?
She couldn’t leave, she wouldn’t. But she wanted him to be certain of what he was doing.
What she had said to Rocco was true. He didn’t really want a wife. He wanted a prisoner.
And he seemed intent on her serving a life sentence.
CHAPTER TEN
I DON’T WANT to be your wife.
Charity’s words rang in his head as he stalked to his gallery, pain twisting his stomach like a knife stabbing him deep, sharp, deadly. He needed to be surrounded by his things.
He didn’t know why she was suddenly fighting against him. Why she was making him feel as if he was a prison guard, keeping her in a leg shackle, when she had been treating him like a lover for the past few weeks. When she knew as well as he did that she responded to his every touch, his every kiss. He was not her enemy.
He had given her a ring. He had promised her his fidelity.
And this was how she repaid him, by standing there in the dress that he was buying for her and telling him she did not want to marry him.
She was his. She was his and there would be no negotiation on that score.
He turned and his eyes locked onto the army men that were on display in the corner of the room. It was a childish thing, he supposed, to keep those here among all of this priceless artwork. But he had liked the idea of having them. Of having something of his childhood returned to him.
The army men had been a gift from his mother, though not these exact toys, but toys just like them. Even after he had lost them, he had remembered them. Remembered the moment his mother had given them to him.
He gritted his teeth against the painful memories, memories it seemed were very close to the surface these days, and he couldn’t quite fathom why. Memories of that horrible emptiness, of loss.
It made no sense. Charity was here, as secure as all of the things in this room. She couldn’t leave him.
So why did it feel as though he had lost her?
Because you can’t own a person. They have to choose you.
He didn’t know where those words came from. He didn’t know why this moment was blurring, images from the past intruding, taking over.
No one had chosen him. He had gone from family to family, each one keeping him for a set amount of time out of obligation, to collect their stipend from the government for taking part in the foster care system. But no one had chosen him.
He had aged out of the system without ever once having someone express interest in keeping him forever. Plenty of people had had legal claim over him during his growing-up years, but no one had
chosen to keep him.
Mama chose you. Even though it cost her pride, her wealth, all the luxury she’d grown accustomed to. Her life.
He covered his eyes with his palms, digging the heels of his hands in hard. Trying to ease the ache that had taken up residence in his head.
What was the difference between those two things? He felt as if he was so close to it, so close that he could almost grasp hold of it. But it was hard, hard when he had spent so many years trying not to feel things. When he had spent so many years pretending emotions didn’t matter.
Love.
No. His entire body rejected that. Because love was so painful. Love was devastating.
You couldn’t buy it. You couldn’t make it stay with you.
You couldn’t replace it.
But the effect of the gift remains...
He growled, turning back to the glass display case that contained the green plastic figures. It had never been about them. But about what he’d felt when she’d given them to him. About trying to recapture that, when he’d known he could never recapture her.
It was never about the things.
The emptiness was never about the loss of the toys.
But it would be so much easier if it were. Because he could buy things. He could replace things. But he could never replace the love that he’d had for the first five years of his life, and never again.
You can’t make Charity love you by forcing her to stay with you.
The empty chamber inside his chest echoed now, pain radiating through his entire body. Because he knew it was true.
These things in this room had never given him anything. They were nothing but dead artifacts. Void of power, void of life. He had told himself that they would fix things, that they would make the emptiness go away. He had thought that by filling his house he would move farther and farther away from that small boy he had been, standing there in an empty hovel in Rome.