Chapter 3 · Cold Silk and Steel

The lock clicked behind me. Three heavy deadbolts, then a keypad chiming like it was proud of itself.

I didn't turn around. I stared at the bed instead.

It was a black marble slab dressed in charcoal silk. It looked less like furniture and more like somewhere you laid out a corpse. Past the foot of it, iron bars ran floor-to-ceiling across the terrace doors. Beyond those bars was sheer cliff and black water.

A gilded cage. Dante definitely had a sense of humor.

"Take a look around, Mrs. Ferrara," he said, voice smooth and low behind me. "You're gonna be seeing a lot of it."

Mrs. Ferrara.

I still had stranger's blood drying on my veil from the cathedral steps. Some idiot had tried to cut the car off outside, and Dante had put him down without blinking once.

The hem of my dress dragged heavy and freezing against my ankles. The diamond band on my left hand felt less like jewelry and more like a diamond-plated handcuff.

High on my left thigh, under three stiff layers of lace and crinoline, the dagger sat flush against my skin. Cold steel, warm thigh, and lethal venom tipped across the point.

He knew about it. He'd practically told me so during the ride over, resting one heavy hand on my knee like he was deciding whether to keep a stray dog.

*Show me how you'd use it.*

So why the hell hadn't he stripped me of it yet?

"Where's the rest of the room?" I asked. My voice came out tighter than I wanted, but steady enough. "Or is this the whole setup? One slab, one set of bars?"

"Bathroom's through there. Walk-in closet beside it." He slid his tuxedo jacket off and dropped it across a leather armchair like he had all night. "Nobody comes in. You don't leave without me."

"That's insane."

"That's marriage."

A sharp laugh ripped out of me. "Is that what we're calling it? My father traded me off like old cargo. My uncle waved goodbye like I was heading out on vacation. You bought me at the altar. Am I supposed to say thank you?"

He turned.

Slow.

The low sconce cast half his face in deep shadow, leaving the other half looking like it had been carved right out of the same dark stone as the bed.

"I didn't buy you, Lucia," he said.

"Right. You just took delivery."

The corner of his mouth ticked up. It wasn't amusement. It was too hungry for that.

He crossed the floor. He didn't rush. Every step hit the polished marble with the quiet weight of a man who owned everything he walked on. My shoulder hit the bedpost before I even realized my feet were moving backward.

Trapped by a piece of furniture. Pathetic.

"You're shaking," he murmured, stopping inches away.

"I'm freezing."

"You're lying."

"Then I'm lying. Doesn't change anything."

He stayed right there, invading my air. Cedar, stale smoke, and clean gun oil under an expensive layer of amber cologne. His gaze slid from my eyes down to my mouth, lingering just long enough to make my stomach drop.

Don't look at him. Do not feel anything for the man whose name my mother's killer choked out on his deathbed.

"Katia," I said, desperate to break the quiet. "The gate guard with the scar. She gave me a look."

His expression didn't flinch. His hand came up instead. Calloused fingers caught a loose curl by my temple, tucking it behind my ear with infuriating care.

"Katia looks at everyone," Dante said. "It's what I pay her for."

"She gave me a nod."

"Did she?"

"You know damn well she did."

"I know a lot of things, Lucia." His thumb trailed down the edge of my ear, down to the hollow under my jaw. My breath caught in my throat. "I know you haven't swallowed a bite of food since dawn. I know your fists have been clenched inside your skirts since the chapel. And I know you counted exactly twelve paces from the doorway to that terrace."

Twelve paces. Exactly.

"And right now," he whispered, stepping another fraction closer until his chest grazed mine, "I know you're thinking about that left thigh. Every time I breathe near you."

A flash of ice hit my ribs, followed by an immediate wave of heat.

"I'm not," I snapped.

"Your eyes just dropped."

"They didn't."

"Mm."

He leaned down until his lips hovered over my jawline. He didn't kiss me. Just hot breath against cold skin. My pulse jumped hard against his thumb, betraying every lie I had.

"I could take it off you right this second," he said, voice rough against my neck. "Slide my hand under all that tulle, snap the garter, and have the blade in my palm before you draw another breath."

I swallowed dry. "Then take it."

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I want you to hand it to me."

I brought both hands up and shoved his chest. It was like shoving concrete. He didn't even shift his weight. He just stood there, letting my palms press flat against his shirt, letting me feel the slow, steady thump of his heartbeat while mine slammed around like a trapped bird.

"You're sick," I spat.

"Probably." His hand clamped around my hip. His fingers bit straight through the soaked satin and stiff petticoats. "Turn around."

"Excuse me?"

"Turn around, Lucia."

"Go to hell."

"Already there. You just arrived."

He gripped my shoulder and spun me before I could fight back. He handled me easily, turning me toward the iron terrace bars. In the dark glass, our reflection stared back: me, pale and furious in torn, blood-splattered silk; him behind me in solid black, one hand pinned to the curve of my waist.

His other hand moved to the back of my gown.

Forty silk-covered buttons ran from my nape to my tailbone. My aunt's seamstress had bragged they'd hold through an earthquake. Dante popped the first one with a flick of his fingers. Then the next.

He wasn't ripping them. He was methodical. Deliberate. Like he was peeling open something he'd already paid full price for.

"Stop it," I choked out.

"Say it like you mean it."

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Cold air rushed across my spine as the silk parted. His knuckles grazed bare skin, sending a violent shiver straight down to my heels.

In the window glass, his dark eyes locked onto mine. He felt the tremor. He knew exactly what it was, and I hated him for it.

"That's what I thought," he murmured.

He swung me back around to face him. The bodice hung open, leaving the boned corset underneath held together by a single white ribbon at my ribs. Dante didn't look down. He caught the loop blind, winding the lace twice around his index finger and yanking it taut.

My ribs jerked against his knuckles. My face ended up inches from his.

"Here's how tonight works, wife," he said, voice dropping into a deadly, quiet grate. "You've got cold steel under that skirt, and I've got all night."

The ribbon pulled tighter, digging into my skin.

"Strip it off yourself," Dante said, "or I cut it off you."