four

K

E L I A

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I'VE BEEN MARRIED to this nymph for all of five minutes, and I can already tell she's going to cause me problems. That fucking bruise on her neck is all I can think about, clogging my brain with thoughts of murder.

Why the fuck won't she tell me who did it?

Tugging her along behind me, I burst through the front doors of the courthouse, ignoring the way she struggles to keep astride me. My town car sits at the curb, Benny behind the wheel, and I elbow my way through the crowd, throwing open the back passenger door and shoving her inside.

At least, I try to. My palm flattens on top of her head, but she braces against the roof, resisting. "Get your hands off me," she snaps, her voice low to avoid eavesdroppers.

My eyes flicker to the cameras behind us, taking the scene in for all of King's Trace to see. "You really want to do this out here? Our first lovers' quarrel, where everyone can listen and use our words against us?"

Her top lip curls over her teeth in disgust. "We are not lovers."

"No? What would you call what we did at Luca's party?"

"Nothing that involves the word love, that's for fucking sure."

I inhale, closing my eyes, trying to tamper down the heat in my bones. This girl makes me insane. My dick stiffens, and I move forward into her, fitting it into her backside. "Careful, mio amore. Someone might hear and think you have ulterior motives for defying dear old daddy."

"Yeah? And what were your motives? Because if you think I'm one of your little whores that'll do whatever you say, you have another thing coming." She glares at me over her shoulder, fingers flexing against the rubber material on the inside curve of the car door frame.

Her tight, plump ass feels soft against my groin, and I throb with desire. It flares in my feet and zings up my spine, flooding my vision. My hand comes down on one cheek, fingers flexing against the material of her white dress. "I'd watch that pretty little mouth if I were you."

Even though we're surrounded by a throng of people, half-strangers with fabricated investment in our lives, there's a glint in her eyes as she meets my gaze over her shoulder. A flame ignites, though I can't pinpoint its origin. "I thought you liked my mouth."

A guttural moan vibrates in my neck, my forehead dropping to her shoulder. "It's the best thing about you, sweetheart, but it's about to get you in a lot of fucking trouble. Get in the car. Now."

She tosses her hair over her shoulder, the scent of tropical, flowery fruit assaulting me as she finally ducks into the vehicle. I slide in beside her as she moves to the opposite door, smoothing her dress down over her legs. We buckle in silence, and Benny pulls away from the sidewalk, inching through the crowd.

"Now," I say, crossing one leg over the other, "let's talk about the bruises on your neck."

"You can't just tell me what to do, you know. You're not my father."

"Thank fuck for that, considering he's a massive piece of shit who sold his daughter."

She tosses me a heated glare, nostrils flaring, cheeks pinkening. Fuck, that blush makes my throat burn. "How lucky for me that you got there first."

"Kieran Ivers would've bent you over the bench in that courtroom, fucked your likely virgin ass, and then slit your throat before thinking twice about his audience. I think you should count your goddamn lucky stars I even offered to marry you."

"I didn't ask you to do that."

"You didn't object, either. Seemed pretty eager when I had my head between your thighs, worshipping your pussy until you came all over my fucking chin."

We've veered so far off-topic, but it's hard to stay focused when the hatred for me emanates from her body like a warm glow from a campfire on a cold winter night. It draws me in, the warmth irresistible, but I'm afraid someone's left a few dead leaves too close to the pit, and it's beginning to spiral out of control.

Clearing my throat, I try to redirect the conversation. "Just tell me who touched you."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Too damn bad." My voice is sharp, the jagged edge of a broken glass shard, and she flinches. Swallowing, I try to force some of the tension from my body, aware that I'm being an ass.

What is she doing to me?

Montaltos don't bend to anyone, and yet I feel my gut deflating, trying to allow room for her to breathe.

"Caroline." I lean over the seat and grip her chin in my hand, forcing her to look at me. Better she learns now that I'm a prick, rather than later. "I don't tolerate secrets."

"Well, that's a shame, husband, because I have many."

My eyes narrow, searching her flawless face for signs of distress. She's cold and aloof, using her attitude to throw me off, but I'm not so easily deterred. "Tell me what happened to you. The last time I saw you, your body was unharmed."

"Wrong, Capo. My body hasn't been unharmed since I was a kid."

"What do you mean?"

She sighs softly, shaking her head, and I release her. Turning to look out the window, she presses her forehead against the glass, watching the world flash by. We pass by the streets leading out of downtown, flush with pine trees and flowerbeds, landscaping maintained by the poorest residents in town. To an outsider, King's Trace is your average, cutesy tourist town, but I know the danger that lurks beneath.

I am the danger.

It feels wrong to be the most powerful man in the state and be unable to get your brand-new wife to open up about her demons.

A million miles stretch between Caroline and me, shifting something between us I wasn't even aware existed. An invisible force, blocking her from me.

Settling back in my seat, I close my eyes and try to focus on strategizing for work. Certainly, when Kieran hears that we went through with our nuptials, he'll want a meeting, and I'm sure as fuck not giving him that. Not when I'm sure he's involved in our missing product.

"Why'd you ask me to marry you?"

Opening my eyes, I look over at my wife; Caroline still stares out the window, but her fingers curl into the top of her thighs, knuckles blooming white. "Does it really matter after the fact?"

"I guess not."

"Look. I just wanted to help. It seemed like you could use it." A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth, and I try to shift the tone of our afternoon. "It helps that you're beautiful."

"What, did you think that by marrying me, I'd pull my skirt up and let you dick me down whenever you need it?"

I choke on a surprised laugh. "Dick you down? Jesus, your mouth. What does that even mean?"

"What's it sound like? Come on, Elia, that big head of yours can't be completely empty. Stupid men don't run crime organizations."

I'm not comfortable with how much she knows about my work, but I suppose that's the curse of living in a small-ass town and being the daughter of a man deeply invested in the world. "Keep talking like that, and I'm going to throw you over my fucking knees, carina. I told you to watch your mouth."

"And I told you, I'm not going to just do whatever you say."

My jaw ticks; I can feel my blood pressure rising, shifting quickly from arousal to indignation. No one fucking talks to me like this, and yet... I don't mean it when I tell her to stop.

What is wrong with me?

"Why'd you agree to it?" I shouldn't ask. Shouldn't care. But none of this adds up. Her own mother said she's not the impulsive type, and she's made it clear she isn't interested in being like the other mafia wives. So, what the fuck is in this for her, besides a little protection?

It's not like she couldn't just disappear. Kieran would go after her father for sure at that point, and the others he owes money to would just follow suit.

So, what's keeping her here, tied to me?

Her eyes stay trained on the window, but I don't miss the way they glaze over, the way her throat bobs with a thick swallow. Something isn't right with her, but I don't have time to figure out what exactly, because, in the next second, Benny pulls into my—our—driveway, announcing our arrival, pulling her from the conversation entirely.

The gray stone walls on the exterior of the restored Victorian mansion look like every other house on the Lake Koselomal strip. They're homes for a few of the uber-elite, heavily entrenched by iron fencing and white cedar trees, overlooking a lake no one ever swims in.

Benny opens the car door for Caroline and helps her out. The urge to make a cutting remark about how easily she accepts help from him briefly scalds my tongue, but I tamp it down at the sheer look of wonder taking over her face. She peers up at the house like it's a castle, and she's a princess finally moving in.

A foreign sensation blossoms within me at the realization that I want her face to stay that way forever—pure, angelic, unfettered. Like all her past ghosts and sins are behind her, forgotten.

"This is your house?" A wide grin breaks out, showcasing her perfect white teeth.

I shrug, making my way up the stone front walk. "Yours, as well, now."

"Holy shit." She stands in the roundabout driveway for a few more seconds, then scrambles to catch up as I step onto the porch. "It's gorgeous. Like something out of a fairytale."

My eyebrows scrunch together. What kind of fairytales are you reading?

Choosing not to burst her bubble, I key in the door code and wait for it to unlock. The entire house has an intricate security system and an armed guard stationed outside at all times. Although, with Caroline's arrival I may have to take on a second one, since Benny goes where I do, and I'm sure as hell not bringing her to the club.

Stepping inside, I share a nod with Benny that lets him know to stay outside and watch as my wife—my wife—gazes around at the tall ceilings, the abstract paintings on some of the walls, the clean and barely used furniture. The white of my home against the white of her dress makes her look like the spring goddess she is, innocence just waiting for the stain of destruction.

I've never liked the lack of color; it's always felt like a personal dig from the interior decorator—like she knew my secrets and filled my home accordingly.

The white marble flooring and the quartz countertops, the Viscaya furniture with all its gold borders and dark woods and white velvets, make the house feel like a coffin, a lonely shell reflective of the life within.

Yet, she gazes around as if she's never seen anything more beautiful.

A small smile plays on my mouth as I watch her, but it disappears as my gaze drops to her neck. She unwinds the scarf, unaware of my inspection, and drapes it over one of the sofas. Trailing her fingers along the soft material, she turns, finally facing me.

If she notices the hard set of my jaw, she doesn't say anything. "This is beautiful."

Again, I shrug, because I'm not really sure what else to do here. I don't know what happens after this. All I can think of is finding out who put their hands on her and stuffing my fist down their throat.

"I can't imagine it's that different from your parents' house." The Harrisons live in the only gated community on the other side of town, situated just behind the mayor's mansion.

She scoffs, pushing a curl behind her ear. "It's hardly a home, first of all. And second, houses in Locust Grove are just cookie-cutter shacks hiding tragedy. They're not places for people to live or raise families. Not like this. There are so many possibilities here."

Taking a step closer, I gaze down at her, inhaling her rich, fruity-yet-floral scent, wishing I could commit it to memory. Maybe even bottle it, keep it for the nights she inevitably refuses to warm my bed. "What tragedy happened at your house, Caroline?"

Her blue eyes meet mine, and I swear I want nothing more in this moment than to lose myself in their depths. The sadness within is endless, a sea of untethered, repressed memories nearly mirroring my own.

She offers me a tight smile, but nothing else.

An invisible force draws me even closer until our body heat mixes together, and I can't tell where mine ends, and hers begins. Heat rises to my neck as her perfume envelops me, and I bring my hand to her throat, sweeping over her broken skin with my fingertips. Leaning against my touch, her eyes drift closed like she feels safe here.

With me.

When she absolutely shouldn't.

When all I can think about is fucking devouring her, crawling inside her skin and stitching myself into the walls of her being, grinding myself into dust and sprinkling it on her bones. All the ways I could destroy her, leave my mark on her.

"Fuck," I breathe, my heart swelling and shattering, like the tide pulling back and crashing against the shore. Her eyes open, and she stares up at me from hooded lashes, daring me to take her.

Taste her.

Eat her alive.

So, I do.