Hold You Against Me

by Skye Warren

  Giovanni comes down the aisle to meet me. “You look beautiful,” he says soberly.

  I nod my thanks. “So do you.”

  His lips quirk. “I know this isn’t what you dreamed of.”

  This isn’t what any woman would dream of. No matter how beautiful the chapel or the dress or even the man himself, the wedding feels cold. “Is that your way of letting me off the hook?”

  He shakes his head slowly. “I didn’t dream of this at all, bella. It presumed too much, more than I deserved. But now that I have you, I can’t let you go.”

  His words move me more than they should. In the clear light of day, in this dress, with this man in front of me, I want more than anything to forgive and forget. To give us a real marriage, no matter how it started. But I can still see the mottled flesh of that man’s knees, still smell blood in the air. Even if I can somehow forget the kidnapping, I can’t forget death. It hangs over the ceremony like a shroud, the worst possible omen to a lifetime together.

  Giovanni reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. “I should have given you this earlier.”

  The small antique ring takes my breath away, the diamonds glittering, the setting both stately and demure. It’s exactly the kind of ring I would have dreamed about.

  “You picked this out?” I ask, my voice wavery.

  “It was my mother’s.” He looks unspeakably earnest and young in that moment. “Something old. For good luck.”

  It feels like there’s a massive weight on my chest. I can’t draw in enough air to respond, but I wouldn’t know what to say anyway. I love that he feels there’s hope for us, even while I know there isn’t. I love him, even knowing the monster he’s become.

  In the end I don’t have to say anything. He takes my hand and we walk down the aisle together to where the others are waiting. Juliette looks nervous, but she tries to cover it up with a smile. Even Lorenzo seems concerned, looking me over as if checking for injuries.

  Only the priest seems oblivious to the tension. With his thick glasses and squinted eyes, I’m not sure how well he can see us.

  Giovanni holds my hand while Father Michaels speaks. Maybe he thinks I’ll bolt if he doesn’t hold me. But the way he brushes his thumb across my palm, back and forth, feels more reassuring than confining.

  “Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

  Giovanni doesn’t hesitate. “I do.”

  Father Michaels continues with his speech, about honoring and obeying, loving and cherishing. “Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

  And the truth is, I do love Giovanni. I cherish him. That’s not enough to make a marriage, not in this mansion, not in the life. What is honor when we’re violent murderers? What is obedience when we’re ruled by greed?

  He squeezes my hand gently, his dark gaze unwavering.

  “I do.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  A sense of numbness buoys me through the ceremony and the small, tense wedding lunch. Giovanni excuses himself to handle some business, and I say my goodbyes to Juliette. That leaves me alone in my bedroom, awaiting my wedding night like some terrified virgin.

  “What do you think?” I ask softly. “Should I forget what he did and try to move forward with him?”

  Lupo doesn’t move, just looks at me with those dark eyes. He was already sitting on the bed when I came in, having made himself comfortable. His tail is still tucked around his body, not wagging. He doesn’t trust me completely, but sharing this comfortable prison has brought us closer together.

  “Still mad at me for trying to leave? I don’t blame you. But I would have come back for you, I swear.”

  He rests his head on his paws.

  I sigh and turn back to my drawing pad, where I’m shading his fur. There’s a lot of it, which makes it a fun and challenging exercise. Something that should take my mind off tonight but doesn’t.

  “I’m giving up on men,” I say, putting down my pencil. “It’s dogs only for me. I’ll put a sculpture of you in the conservatory. What do you think?”

  He growls low in his throat.

  “Or maybe not.”

  Then I realize someone’s coming to the door. Lupo growls and slinks off the bed to hide underneath.

  The lock turns, and Maria walks in carrying a large white box with silver wrapping paper hanging off. She looks apologetic as she holds it out. “A wedding present from Juliette. Romero had to open it first.”

  To check for weapons. So much for forgetting the past. I’m still living in it.

  I take the box and push aside the wrapping paper. Sapphire satin cups nestle against thin tissue paper. Delicate cream lace lines the bottom and the straps. Oh God. She got me lingerie. For my wedding night.

  A blush heats my cheeks. Romero and Maria saw this. “So I don’t even get privacy now?”

  Humiliation burns, mixed with anger that I’m trapped here, that I gave up my one chance to escape for a man who died anyway. A man who was probably here to hurt me. Everything is twisted and upside down.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmurs.

  “Don’t pretend like you care about any of this. You’re helping him keep me here.”

  “He won’t hurt you.”

  The frustration inside me hardens, sharpens. “That wouldn’t make it okay even if it were true. And it’s not. Tonight he’s going to consummate this marriage, whether I want to or not.”

  Worry passes over her expression. “He…he wouldn’t.”

  I laugh, rough and cold. “Then you’re even more naive than I am.”

  That may not be who Giovanni was before. I know it wasn’t as well as anyone. But I saw what he was capable of last night. This place has changed him. I think it changed me too.

  Running my hands over the satin, some of my anger dissipates, leaving only sadness. “What do you think this is for, Maria? A romantic evening between lovers?”

  Even though my voice is softer, she flinches.

  I lift the lace strap with my forefinger. It’s kind of a sweet present from Juliette, even if it is unexpected. As I pull the bra from the box, a slip of blue paper flutters to the bottom. A message. My gaze flies to Maria, but she’s crouched by the bed making soft noises for the dog. She didn’t see it.

  With a casual movement, I drop the bra back into the box and shove it onto the bed. “Can you at least leave while I change? Or do you need to watch me do that too?”

  I feel a little bad that she looks guilty, even though she is helping to keep me captive. Mostly I just need her gone so I can read what’s on that paper. It might be something completely innocent like a note of best wishes. Or even laundry care instructions for all I know.

  “I have to take Lupo,” Maria says, not meeting my eyes.

  So we can have privacy? I hold back a shiver. Partly I’m defiant about what’s going to happen, but mostly I’m scared. “Better you than Romero. He’s still pissed at me.”

  Her smile is small. “Mr. Costas gave him hell.”

  “I bet.”

  She sobers. “I wanted to tell you…what happened to me. But I’ve never told anyone else before.”

  I shift, uncomfortable with where this is going. I don’t want to care about her. And I have a sinking feeling this has to do with Giovanni. Except she’s looking too vulnerable, and I can’t be mean to her right now. I nod my head toward the small table, at least getting her away from the lingerie box.

  She sits down as if preparing for execution. Her eyes are trained on the empty table, her slender hands clasped together in front of her.

  The seriousness of her pose settles any remaining temper I’ve been feeling. I reach across and place my hand on top of hers in comfort. “What is it?”

  Her lips press together for a long moment. “When I was sixteen, I was sold to a man my family owed money to.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “It wasn’t entirely a surprise. My sister had disappeared two years earlier. And I knew they were struggl
ing. Their only hope was for my brother to go to school and support them when he got out.”

  “That’s awful, Maria. I’m so sorry.”

  Her eyes glisten with tears. “You may be wondering why I’m helping Mr. Costas, considering what happened to me.”

  “I…” I blink rapidly, trying to reconcile this with her previous words. “I guess you might not have a choice.”

  She gives a small shake of her head. “Not exactly. I mean I don’t have any control over what happens to you. But I could quit working here. He wouldn’t stop me. In fact he offered to set me up with a house, a new life.”

  My stomach churns. That’s the kind of offer men make to mistresses. “So you and he were…involved?”

  Surprise passes over her face. “No. Oh no, definitely not. He saved me, Clara. He took me away from the brothels and gave me freedom. And he taught me to defend myself. I could have gone anywhere. Some women went back to their families, but I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to face the world alone either, so I stayed here.”

  Sympathy slices deep within me. “I’m glad he saved you,” I whisper.

  That’s the Giovanni I loved before. Is it possible that some of him survived?

  How can it exist alongside the monster from last night?

  She hesitates. “That’s why I didn’t…why I don’t think he’ll hurt you. He killed all the men who held us, the ones who beat us and sold us out every night.”

  Maybe only a man with both the lover and monster could have saved those women. It takes a kind of brutality to face violence. It takes a monster to take down a monster.

  “I understand.” And I do understand why she believes in him after all that. I can’t fault her for that. But I also know that things are different with me. I’m the one he kidnapped. I’m the one he married.

  And I’m the one who has to face him tonight, alone.

  “I’ll help you get Lupo,” I tell her. It takes both of us to lure him from beneath the bed and onto a leash. Then she’s gone, leaving me alone with the box—and the note.

  I toss aside the tissue paper and the bra. The blue slip of paper falls to the bedspread.

  H is coming for you. Meet her in the pool house Saturday night.

  Chapter Twenty

  I decide to wear the blue satin and cream lace set. There’s a bra and matching thong, along with cream-colored thigh-high stockings with little fleurs-de-lis stitched in. It’s definitely the prettiest underwear I’ve ever worn. I want to pretend like there’s some other reason I’m doing this, like I’m just trying to appease my kidnapper, or maybe make sure no one questions the gift. The truth is that I want to look beautiful on my wedding night, no matter that it’s fake. I want to look sexy for Giovanni, no matter how dark he’s turned.

  Only when I’m fully showered and shaved and dressed do I realize there’s no robe. I find an old tie-dye pink robe in the back of my closet but decide that ruins the effect. And I feel too vulnerable standing in the middle of the room in underwear.

  I turn off the lights and slide under the covers.

  Butterflies flutter in my stomach, but I’ve decided not to fight Giovanni. He proved in the conservatory that he can make this good for me—better than I thought possible. I know it’s going to happen anyway. So I’ll lie here and look pretty and let him have his way. If I’m lucky, I’ll get an orgasm or two out of the night.

  That will be the end, because he told me it would be my choice after the marriage is consummated.

  It will be almost a full week until Honor comes and rescues me. It’s Sunday now, which means I have six days to get through. I’m a little surprised she’s set the timeline for so long, but I’m sure it takes considerable effort to plan an escape with this kind of security.

  So I’ll wait and endure.

  This is the very reasonable, logical, almost safe plan that I come up with between the time Maria leaves and the seconds in the dark when I hear the lock turn. Except my heart is racing faster than a shooting star. My palms are sweaty, my skin tight and hot. I regret not having sex with Shane or any of the college boys who would have happily, drunkenly hooked up—so at least I would have done this before. Instead I’m having a silent mental breakdown in the dark.

  The door swings open, the faint light from the hallway obscenely bright. Giovanni darkens to pure shadow, moving without sound, with all the grace and danger of a panther.

  He doesn’t approach the bed. Instead he finds the vanity with ease, flicking on the lamp with a small click. His tux has rumpled since the ceremony, the jacket missing, shirtsleeves rolled up. His eyes are hooded with some emotion that makes me shiver.

  “Clara.”

  I sit up, holding the sheet to shield my breasts. “I’m ready,” I lie with all the sincerity I can muster. It sounds pretty convincing if you ignore the tremor in my voice. “You can do what you need to do, and I won’t fight you.”

  “I see.”

  “Right, so…you can turn off the light now.”

  He turns away, and I see the flash of a smile. He finds this amusing? That’s horrifying on multiple levels. When he turns back, his expression is serious. “Let’s go.”

  “Um, what?”

  “I’m not taking you here. We’ll go to my room.”

  “Oh.” Crap. Why didn’t I think of that? Maybe it is a little weird to have sex on my childhood bed, even if it is big enough. Then again, having sex in the master bedroom—the place where my father slept—is actually weirder. And oh God, what if he didn’t change the furniture in there either? “I’m not exactly dressed.”

  There’s a pause, and when he speaks, his voice has lowered. “You’re naked?”

  Almost. “Juliette got us a present.”

  “I heard about that. I didn’t think you’d wear it.”

  “Well, like I said. I’m just being practical about the whole thing.”

  “Ah.” Now he’s definitely holding back a laugh. “Practical.”

  My cheeks heat. “I can’t believe you’re smiling right now.”

  His smile fades a little, leaving him looking thoughtful. “You do have a way of making me smile when I least expect it. But we’re definitely leaving this room. No one’s in the hallway. No one will see you.”

  He sent Romero away? That’s some relief. “You’ll see me.”

  “But you’re being practical about that,” he reminds me.

  Damn him. Keeping my head held high, I push the sheets off and stand up beside the bed. His gaze drifts over my body, eyes molten, jaw tight. It’s a struggle not to cover my breasts or put a hand between my legs. There’s fabric covering me, but it’s thin and designed to show more than it hides. A blush spreads from the center of my chest, pinkening the slopes of my breasts, spreading up my neck.

  I take a deep breath and one step forward. Then another.

  I refuse to be embarrassed by him, but the way he looks at me isn’t embarrassing—he looks at me like I’m the most incredible thing he’s ever seen, like he has to hold himself back from snatching it. He looks like a man at the edge of his control. “Lead the way,” I whisper.

  He stands as if turned to stone. It’s in slow, almost painful degrees that he moves away. The hall is empty, and I look the opposite direction, toward the staircase.

  Giovanni stops and regards me with an assured curiosity. I might try to run, but he’ll catch me. Whatever I do next, I’ll end up in his room and on his bed. The only thing I can do now is be…practical.

  It’s a relief to see that he’s changed the bedroom completely. I didn’t spend much time in here, but I had at least seen my father’s severe black furniture with gold trim and glass surfaces. The room has been redone with thick cherrywood in a conservative style. Wood the color of cinnamon is topped by white sheets and a cerulean down comforter.

  Against the side wall there’s a table with two chairs—and it’s set with platters. As I step closer, I see cheeses, olives, and herb-filled bread. On another tray there are chocolate-dipped strawb
erries and candied pecans artfully arranged. Candlelight licks the metal latticework on the small plates.

  “I’m not hungry,” I say.

  “Maria told me you skipped dinner.” I hear the note of disapproval in his voice. “And lunch.”

  Food didn’t seem like something I could digest. It’s like getting married has changed my DNA, turned me into some other creature. I still feel like that, but Giovanni stands behind a chair, waiting for me to sit. The alternative to this is sex, and even though I’ve decided to do it, I can’t bring myself to hurry it along.

  I sit, the wood cool against my butt. My almost naked butt.

  Giovanni sits opposite me, looking completely unconcerned by the fact that he’s dressed while I’m…not. Of course I did this to myself. I thought wearing the lingerie would smooth along the process. He does seem appreciative of the view, watching me with heavy-lidded gratification; we seem to be moving at a glacial pace.

  “Champagne?” he asks.

  “Please.” Alcohol sounds amazing. In fact if there were women walking around with neon-green test-tube shots, I’d grab three.

  He pours three fingers in a slender flute.

  I swallow the entire amount before choking on the fiery bubbles. “Oops,” I cough.

  With a quirk of his lips, he refills my glass, then fills his. “Tell me about school.”

  I eye the flute of champagne like it’s my enemy. I want the numbness that comes with being drunk, but I’m not sure I can survive another round. Especially on an empty stomach. So I grab an olive and nibble on the salty flesh. “I thought you’d have read everything about it, considering you were following me.”

  He doesn’t look repentant. “I know your course load and your GPA. I want to know what you think about it. What you loved. What you hated. What you dreamed about.”

  Is this a seduction? I want to tell him it isn’t necessary. I want to tell him that stealing my body doesn’t give him the right to my soul. Instead I find myself telling him the truth. “I loved all of it. Sculpture and sketching, composition and even calligraphy. What I didn’t love was the campus politics, trying to fit in when everyone has an agenda.”