“You’re welcome.”
On impulse, she turns her eyes away from mine, but then remembers herself and keeps them exactly where they should always be—on me.
For the remainder of the song, we don’t say another word to each other, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a silent battle of wills being fought between us. Like her namesake, this rose came with sharp-edged thorns, and she isn’t shy in using them to cut a man down if the need arises.
Unfortunately for her, no prick or cut she can inflict will ever cause me an ounce of pain. And if she’s not careful, she’ll learn the true meaning of the word agony soon enough.
But the night is still young.
Who knows?
Maybe I’ll give her just a little taste.
My cock hardens at the idea, and for the first time in a decade, I’m eager to perform my husbandly duties.
“We’re spending our wedding night back at the hotel?” Rosa asks, unable to hide her displeasure when I instruct our limo driver to take us to the Liberty Hotel where she stayed last night.
“Is the room not to your liking?” I cock a brow, wondering if her disapproval of where we are to start our so-called honeymoon has anything to do with her somehow learning that the place used to be a prison in its heyday before it was converted to the luxurious five-star hotel that it is now.
Some might have thought my choice of having my bride lay her head there her first night in Boston distasteful. Maybe even sadistically macabre.
I thought it was fitting.
If I’m to fulfill this imprisonment, then I might as well start it off in a place that holds some form of symbolism to it.
“No. It’s fine,” she mumbles, turning her head away from me, so I can’t read the disappointment on her face.
If this marriage wasn’t a sham, then maybe I wouldn’t be so reluctant to take her back to my place tonight. But as circumstances stand, just the idea of having a Hernandez walking around my sanctuary, touching my things, or running the risk of her sweet floral perfume floating all throughout my apartment nauseates me. I’m going to need some time to get used to married life, and I’d rather do that in neutral territory before I invite the enemy into my home.
Still…
Rosa has been able to accomplish the impossible tonight. Her presence alone served as a great distraction, keeping my mind, even if only at times, away from the hell my sister must be experiencing back in Vegas. But just as the realization dawns on me that I haven’t thought about Iris once since I danced with my wife, a tidal wave of guilt hits me straight in the chest like one of my construction company’s cement trucks, accompanied by the worst nightmare my fiendish mind can conjure up. My hands ball into fists with the image of three Bratva bastards charging at my sister, her only means of defense the simple dagger I gave her as a wedding present.
The horrid thought has me so tense that it takes me a second to register delicate fingers covering my balled-up fist on the leather seat beside me. My nostrils flare as I snap my head over to Rosa, whose gentle gaze is fixed on our hands.
“They won’t hurt her,” she whispers, running her thumb over my scarred knuckles, eyeing the movement ever so carefully, like I’m some wild animal that will bite her hand off at any given moment. “They can’t. The treaty prevents them from doing so.”
I quickly pull my hand away from hers, burned by her tender touch as well as repulsed by her naivety.
“Is that what you think?” I growl, disgusted.
“It’s what I know,” she states plainly, clasping her hands together on her lap.
“And what exactly do you know, pray tell?”
Her forehead wrinkles at the venom in my voice, but either bravery or mere stupidity prevents her from not answering my loaded question.
“I know that if your sister is harmed in any way while she’s under Volkov’s care, that the families will retaliate against them. The Bratva gave their word to protect her on penalty of death. I don’t see them breaking such an oath for mere sport.”
I grab her chin, uncaring of how my fingers dig into her soft flesh or how they are bound to leave their mark.
“The word of monsters means nothing,” I spit out.
“That’s not true,” she counters steadfastly, her gaze never wavering from mine. “Many would call you a monster, yet no one would dare question your word. Not even my brother. If Alejandro thought my safety would be in question in any way, then he would have killed you before I stepped one foot on U.S. soil.”
The menacing low laugh that rips through my throat pales her olive-toned cheeks.
“If you believe that, then you’re an even bigger fool than your brother. There are many ways to make someone’s life a living hell and still leave a person physically intact, so as to not to warrant the wrath of the families. Do not speak of things you do not know. It only makes you sound ignorant.”
She pulls her chin from my grasp, tilting her head away from me and towards the passenger’s side window.
“Men like you think they hold a monopoly on suffering and pain. Just because you are experts in doling out misery doesn’t mean you know one thing about true anguish. Proclaiming that you do only makes you sound ignorant.”
I stare at the back of her head, suddenly wanting to pull her silky brown hair and crane her neck back to look at me. It’s so fucking long that I’d have no problem in spinning it twice around my wrist.
“And what does a cartel princess know of suffering?” I sneer in contempt.
“Who I am has nothing to do with it. Everyone hurts. Some people just hide it better than others.”