Filthy (A Bad Boy Romance)(9)

Oh God. That. I shrink back a little, trying to keep the abject horror I’m feeling from showing on my face. “Oh. Um… When did you have in mind?”

“Maybe this summer?”

“This summer? So soon?” My heart’s speeding up, and I’m going to spiral right into a panic attack any second now.

“Well, you keep putting it off. I mean, first it was you wanting to finish college, and then you wanting to take a little break after you finished college… What is it now?”

The fact I have absolutely no desire whatsoever to marry you? “I’m thinking of going back to school. You don’t want to get married now. I’ll be so busy.”

His face hardens. “Yeah, your daddy told me something about your plan to get another degree. And that’s not happening.”

“I don’t think that’s your decision.” I’m starting to get queasy. Did Pop put him up to this after our “little talk” the other night?

“It is as long as I’m your husband.”

“You’re not my husband.” Just saying that word in reference to him makes me sicker.

“I will be. And it’s going to happen this summer. So get your pretty little head around that fact.”

He reaches for me again, his hand closing around my arm. I’m already a little sore there where his fingers bit into me before, and they bite in again, right into the same spots. I’d threaten to tell Pop he’s hurting me, but the sad part is Pop won’t care. He’d approve, even. Carmine jerks me closer to him, my chest pressing against his. “I don’t think you understand how this works. You’re promised to me. I own you.”

“Not yet.” My voice is shaking a little, and I hate that. Just the implication that he will own me someday makes my hands tremble. I want to add “not ever,” but again, I don’t want to make him any angrier.

He laughs, and then he kisses me. His mouth is hard and insistent. I want to bite him. I could say the hard kisses remind me of the way Cain is rough with me, but they don’t. It’s a completely different thing. The kind of dominance Carmine’s trying to assert here is repulsive to me. Cain’s is…something entirely else.

I jerk my head back and barely restrain the urge to slap him. “Take me home.”

“I’m not done with this party.”

“Then I’ll call a cab.”

“Like hell you will.” He jerks me by my hand back against him and bends his head so his mouth is against my ear. “You need to learn to obey. I get my ring on your finger, and you’d best do as you’re told.” He bites my earlobe. “The things I’ll do to you…” The chuckle is as repulsive as everything else about him. “Ah, I can’t wait.”

To my horror, I feel a hot tear slide down my cheek. He sees it and his grin widens. With a thumb, he shoves the drop off my skin. “You’ll be a fun one to break.”

I take a sharp breath; it’s as much as I can manage. “I’m going home.”

“You’re not—”

But I jerk free and start quickly away from him, counting on his not wanting to create a sideshow in the middle of his precious party. The bet pays off, and I make my way outside. There’s a cab waiting—I’m sure somebody else called it, but I get inside anyway and tell the driver to take me home.

#

The front hallway is dark, and for a few minutes I think maybe I’m actually going to be able to make it to my room without seeing anyone.

No such luck. Trying to slip past the living room, I hear Pop’s voice.

“Carmine called. He said you left him at the party. What do you think you’re doing, young lady?”

I stop. I consider just turning my back on him and stalking the rest of the way to my room. Because what the hell kind of way is that to talk to a grown woman? It’s not like I’m sixteen years old and sneaking in after curfew. No, this is bullshit. So I turn and stare him down.

He’s in the living room, pushing out of his favorite chair, where he’s been sitting reading the newspaper. He does not look happy. I toss my head a little and answer him. “I wasn’t feeling well. He didn’t want to leave, so I just caught a cab.”

“That’s no way to treat your future husband.” He folds his hands in front of himself, the paper dangling limply from between two fingers. “You don’t just abandon a man like that.”

I barely manage not to roll my eyes. “He’s a big boy. I’m sure he figured out how to take care of himself.”

He’s silent a moment. Then he speaks again, very slowly. “It’s a matter of respect, Jessica. And I expect you to show respect to your fiancé.”

“He didn’t need me there. And I have a headache, and I just want to go to bed. Is that a problem?” My face has gone hot with rage.

He doesn’t answer my question directly. Instead he shifts his posture, using one arm to gesture toward an empty chair in the living room. “Why don’t you come in and sit down. Let’s have a talk.”

“Pop, I don’t—”

“Come in. Sit.” His tone isn’t sharp, but there’s a look in his eyes that tells me it’s not worth fighting him. I come in and sit, perched carefully on the edge of the chair. He heads back to his chair and sinks into it, dropping the newspaper on the coffee table. “Now. Let’s talk.”

“What about?” I don’t quite meet his eyes. I don’t want to have this conversation. It’s just like conversations we had when I was sixteen. It’s infuriating.

“About your attitude.”

If I clench my teeth any harder, I’m going to crack a molar. Then he’ll have to pay for a crown, and won’t that make him happy? “My attitude?”

“I don’t like the way you flout my authority.”

“Your authority?” It’s all I can do to keep my tone even. It’s certainly more than I can manage to contribute anything to the conversation beyond repeating his nonsense.

He leans forward, elbows on knees, fingers steepled. His expression is the epitome of reason and fatherly concern. “You’re living in my house, spending my money. While you’re here, you do what I say.” Leaning back again, he gives me a dark, level look. “Until you get married, you’re my responsibility.”

Your property, you mean. I don’t say that out loud, but damn, this grates. It’s not like I don’t know this is his attitude. This is just the way things are in this family. The women do what they’re told and the men do what they want. They run the “family business.” That’s not a venture women should dirty their hands with.

“Then maybe I’ll just get married and move out,” I shoot back, but it sounds a little weak even to my ears.

“That’s fine with me. I’ll discuss the details with Carmine.”

My fists clench. “I am not marrying Carmine. Forget it.”

Again, he speaks with careful reason. “I don’t understand this, either, honey. Carmine’s a good guy. We’ve known him since he was a kid. Shit, since he was born. He’s from a good family. He’s been raised right.”

A mob family, he means. And by “raised right,” Pop means Carmine has learned from right at his father’s knee the “proper” way to treat a woman. How to keep her under control. How to make sure she doesn’t know what’s going on. That she’s kept ignorant and controlled and covered in furs so maybe she doesn’t know she’s ignorant and controlled. He demonstrated that all too well tonight.

That’s not me. I won’t do it. I won’t be that. I’d rather live on the street. “I don’t like him.”

“Oh, you’ll learn to like him.” He picks up the paper again. “Your mother learned to like me.”

Did she? I’ve always wondered. Mom had seemed fairly content, but there was no way to tell. She never crossed Pop, never did anything he didn’t approve of. And if she came to breakfast with a purple eye once in a while—carefully disguised with make-up, of course—well, no one ever said anything about it. That was just the way things were.

I decide it’s not worth my time or my energy to argue with him anymore. I stand. “Maybe. May I go?”

He’s already starting to disengage, figuring he’s dispensed all the necessary chastisement. “Yes.” He flicks the paper and gives me another level look. “Don’t plan to go anywhere tomorrow. I need you in the office.”

“Fine.”

I swivel and head for my bedroom. I’m too angry even to cry.

I’ve known since I was about eight that I’m supposed to marry Carmine Romano. There’s never been any question about it. It’s like Medieval England or something. But there’s something dark in Carmine, and he showed me that tonight. Again. He’s never actually raised a hand to me, though he’s come close. I’ve been careful not to give him an excuse.

There’s darkness in Cain, too, but somehow, when I’m with Cain, I feel safe, even though he’s seething with danger. With Carmine, even though he’s safe in the eyes of my family, I feel desperate, like I’ve got my leg in a trap and I’m going to have to chew it off to get away. Cain won’t hurt me—I’m certain of that, but I don’t know why. Carmine? Carmine would backhand me across a room if he felt like I deserved it.