Chapter 5 · Hold Still

The key was still warm from his pocket. It bit into my palm like a warning.

The barrel of his Glock stayed buried in my ribs, right through the lace. Right against the spot where my heart was kicking wildly.

"Go on," Dante Ferrara murmured. "Unlock it."

He said it like he was asking for a lighter.

I stared at the black iron bars bolted floor-to-ceiling into the marble. Past them lay the terrace. Past that, nothing but gray fog, jagged rocks, and black water slamming against the cliffs below.

"Run where?" My voice came out thin. I hated how small it sounded. "We're on an island, Dante."

"Swim." He tilted his head, eyes dead and dark. "You're a Moretti. Don't you people pride yourselves on vanishing?"

My gown weighed forty pounds. Eight hours ago, I knelt at an altar while my father traded me off with a nod. Now I was locked in a penthouse bedroom with a killer who owned my name, my bed, and the air in my lungs.

I didn't move.

"Scared?" he asked.

"Thinking."

"About what?"

"Why my brand-new husband wants me to jump off his balcony on our wedding night."

Something dark flashed in his eyes. He stepped closer. The gun never wavered. His chest pressed inches from mine, radiating pure, suffocating heat. He smelled like cedar, burning tobacco, and gun oil.

"I don't want you to jump," he said softly. "I want to see what you do when I hand you a door."

A test. Always a test.

I rammed the key into the lock. My hands shook, but I forced the heavy iron bolt back. It slid with a brutal clank that cracked through the quiet room.

The gate swung open.

Freezing wind hit my bare shoulders like ice water. My veil snapped behind me, tearing at the pins in my scalp.

I walked out to the edge. The stone floor burned cold right through my satin slippers. Ten feet ahead, the railing dropped straight into the abyss. Down there, waves crashed like gunshots over and over.

I stood there, counting heartbeats.

"Well?" His voice hit my ear before I even heard him move. "The lake's waiting, little killer."

"Stop calling me that."

"Why? Fits you."

"I haven't killed anyone."

"Not yet."

I whipped around. He was right on top of me. The gun hung down against his thigh, his gaze scanning my mouth, my neck, reading every twitch of my throat.

"If I wanted to run," I snapped, "I wouldn't have waited for your permission."

"No." A hard muscle jumped along his jaw. "You would've waited until I fell asleep. Until I turned my back. Then you'd hit me with whatever you snuck into this house."

My pulse skipped.

"Your men searched me twice before the church. Shoes, dress, undergarments. I have nothing."

"They searched your purse." He took a slow, deliberate step forward. My spine hit the freezing railing. "Enzo's wife mentioned you spent three weeks locked in your room learning how to sew."

"I like sewing."

"You broke three needles and stabbed your thumb raw without making a sound." His lips curved into something cold and razor-sharp. "That's not a bride practicing embroidery. That's a girl building pain tolerance."

He knew.

My stomach dropped into freefall. The urge to bolt tore through me, but there was nowhere to go except the drop behind me. My father gave me away like a sacrificial lamb, and my mother had been poisoned in her sleep six months ago. I was going to find out whose orders killed her—even if I had to carve the answer out of Dante's throat.

I forced my chin up. "Think whatever you want, Don Ferrara."

"Dante." His voice dropped an octave, rough and low. "Say my name."

"Put the gun away. I'm freezing."

"Then get back inside."

Before I could step sideways, his free hand clamped around my wrist. His fingers were scorching hot against my skin. His thumb settled right over my racing pulse point, pressing hard enough to feel every terrified thud.

He dragged me back through the gate. The iron door slammed shut. The latch locked.

He slid the key back into his pocket, holstering the Glock at the small of his back without looking.

"That's it?" I breathed, backing into the bedroom. "Test over?"

"Just the first one."

He stalked forward, slow and heavy. Every instinct told me to run, but my heels caught on the heavy hem of the skirt. When he reached me, he didn't grab my waist. He reached straight up for my head.

"Hold still," he ordered.

"Don't touch me—"

"Still, Lucia."

His long fingers slid into the lace of my veil, finding the heavy comb pinned at my crown. He eased it loose with agonizing care. Yards of white tulle cascaded to the floor, pooling around our feet like melted wax.

His knuckles brushed the curve of my ear. My skin broke into goosebumps, and my chest heaved.

"You're shaking," he noted, his gaze tracking the pulse fluttering in my neck.

"I told you. It's cold."

"Bullshit."

His fingers pushed deeper into my hair, pulling out one hairpin after another. He wasn't rough. That was what made it terrifying. He took his time, unraveling the curls, his thumb grazing the sensitive hollow behind my jaw. His breath smelled dark and sweet, ghosting over my parted lips.

The lace ribbon around the hilt was soaked in dried hemlock extract. One tiny scratch was all it took. One scrape against warm skin, and the venom would hit his bloodstream in seconds.

"Dante, stop," I whispered, my voice trembling.

"Why? We haven't even started."

His fingers sank into the thick twist pinned at the nape of my neck.

Then he froze.

His knuckles had just bumped into something narrow, rigid, and freezing cold hidden deep inside my braided hair.

Steel.

His eyes snapped up to mine. And his mouth curved into a slow, feral smile.