“I can’t let you go, but I can make this good for you. Let me, bella.”
Something inside me unfurls. The temptation is too strong, my love for him still burning too bright. As wrong as it is, I want him to soothe me, to make me want this cage.
The look I give him is all the acquiescence he needs.
With a low groan he presses his face into my hair. Gentle hands push it aside, baring my neck once again. His lips meet the angle of my jaw. He forges a trail down my neck, branding me with every soft kiss. But while his lips are soft, his hands on my hips are not. They hold me still as if he’s afraid I might bolt. His body is as hard as a brick wall behind me, unforgiving. A rock of his hips and I feel the column of his arousal.
“I don’t want to take you downstairs,” he mutters. “Don’t want to share you with them.”
Except those people are the reason he kidnapped me. Because of the blood that runs through my veins. Because of the birthright that feels more like a curse.
Tension wraps around me, so tight I can’t help but speak. “Then let’s leave them, Gio. We can run away together, like we always dreamed about. Just you and me.”
He pauses, his face pressed into my neck, and it feels like a refuge.
Then he steps back, and the cool air between us might as well be a desert. “It’s not that simple,” he says, voice dark enough to ward off any more intimacy.
*
The party is in full swing by the time we reach the staircase, the foyer and parlor room packed with custom-made tuxes and designer gowns. Heads turn when we make our descent, watching us with blatant avarice. Giovanni’s arm is solid, steady, which is good because I’m clinging to him. He might be my kidnapper, but tonight he’s also my shield.
“There you are,” exclaims a voice I haven’t heard in years. Both of us turn to greet the gray-haired matron, Ada, a force of nature in this social circle. Her hair shines the same silver as before, her eyes just as shrewd. “Haven’t you grown into a fine young woman.”
I give her a real smile, if somewhat nervous. She was always nice to me, even knowing about my parentage. “Ada. So nice to see you again.”
Her expression is knowing. “It’s good to have you back.”
My mouth opens and then closes. I’m not prepared for faking it through all these people. And we’ll have to meet with all of them. Some I recognize, some I don’t. And the entire time I’ll have to pretend I actually want to be here.
Ada pulls me close, suffusing me with the fresh smell of gerberas. “Chin up, darling. The vultures only circle when you bleed.”
I glance at Giovanni and see he’s watching me with an unreadable expression. He’s certainly not anywhere close to bleeding, his posture both confident and relaxed, as if he belongs here. And he does, if the glances of respect and jealousy are anything to judge by. He belongs here more than I ever did.
“Thank you,” I whisper to Ada.
She nods and turns away, leaving me to greet another old family friend.
At least, that’s what I would have called them before. Now I know they’re hardly friends. They’re vultures; Ada was right about that. I lift my chin and meet their gazes, determined not to bleed.
A hundred people later—or maybe only ten—I’m close to falling down. This is no different from the nights on Party Row. Oh, the jewels shine brighter here, but it’s the same. Posturing and smiling. Pretending and judging.
No one dares to whisper about me when I’m nearby, not with Giovanni at my side.
I know they’ll talk, though. I feel their looks burning into my back.
“Dance with me,” Giovanni murmurs.
He’s been an utter gentleman the entire night. He was always kind to me, but I never knew he had polite manners for such a formal social situation. Actually, he probably didn’t. He must have learned them since ascending to his title. And I don’t want to imagine another woman on his arm while he did.
“All right,” I say because anything that will take me out of the spotlight sounds good.
Except that the small crowd of dancers part when we step into the ballroom.
Giovanni turns back and holds out his hand.
It feels momentous somehow, as if he’s offering more than just a dance. Although what, I can’t imagine. Certainly not a real life together. Not love. This entire thing is a charade, the same way it was with Shane. He may as well be groping me at a cocktail table while someone brings around test-tube shots.
I place my hand in his, and heat shoots up my arm to settle low in my stomach.
That much is different, though. That much has always been different.
And then he brings me into his arms, moving me around the dance floor with such casual grace that my breath catches. Who is this man of elegance and power? I used to lie with him, sharing my headphones as we both listened to the music on my iPod. Now we’re dancing to a six-string orchestra.
His gaze is dark as he watches me, his grip sure.
“Where did you learn to do this?” I murmur, uncertain if I really want to know.