The Marriage He Must Keep(17)

But she’d been surprised enough to halt again. Her skirt had swayed around both their legs. “Are you serious? We’ve only just met.”

“You’ve only just met Primo. But you’ve chosen me.”

She swallowed. Had she? When? This was starting to feel too fast. Impulsive.

“What...? What about him?” she asked.

Something fierce flashed in his expression, but he’d suppressed it before she fully caught what it could have been. “I’ll handle my cousin.”

He’d returned her to her parents, saying to Primo, “We need to talk.”

Primo had given her another hard study, as if he was trying to find what he’d missed, then set his jaw and left with Alessandro.

“You ruined it,” her father had growled in accusation.

“You were on the balcony with his cousin?” her mother scolded. “He was asking for you.”

“Nothing happened,” Octavia protested, but a lot had. “I mean, not like anything wrong.” She had been quivering in a kind of shock. “We just talked and... I think he’s going to offer for me. Alessandro, I mean.” It sounded outlandish even to her, now that he was gone.

Her father had given her a grim look. “You misunderstood,” he insisted. What could Alessandro possibly want with her, his disdainful sneer had asked?

What did Alessandro want from her? Compliance? A son? Would he be happy now? Approve?

In every way, Alessandro was so much more than she was. She’d realized it that night on the terrace and it had only become more apparent as time wore on. He had more education and street smarts, pulled all the strings, had the power and the influence and confidence in his own prowess whether it was in negotiating the marriage contract or teaching his wife the ways of their marital bed.

All she’d had was youthful, twenty-two-year-old looks that were passably pretty because she’d made a concerted study of how to highlight her assets and downplay her flaws. She prided herself on things like duty and loyalty because they were the only things her parents had ever valued and she’d overshot independence, skinning her knees hard enough to scare her back into her mother’s lap.

She had been a complete doormat.

It had to stop.



Alessandro had been exhausted when the interrogation was finished, but he was drawn to the hospital rather than bed, still poised to fight—because his cousin had attacked him in a very selective, devious way. Gone were the pesky one-upmanship salvos. This had very nearly succeeded in causing unimaginable damage.

It had nearly cost Octavia’s and Lorenzo’s lives.

A storm of retaliation was gathered in his chest, threatening to burst the civilized armor he had welded around himself with careful precision after his immature, hair-trigger temper had snuffed out his father’s life in the time it took to blow. Since then, he had learned to contain the wild force inside him so, even though he wanted to do violence to Primo, he ruthlessly disciplined himself to seek reprisal through legal channels. He would pursue every avenue of justice open to him and he would lose nothing in this undeclared war Primo had subversively raged against him.

Walking away unscathed would be his ultimate revenge.

He checked on Lorenzo, having already learned from Octavia that her instinct had been right. This was their son. Alessandro could barely take in the magnitude of how easily he could have missed knowing his own flesh and blood.

Those thoughts fed his rage so he pushed them aside, going to Octavia’s room where he was relieved to find her asleep. He wasn’t ready to talk about all that had transpired today.

Part of him was tempted to crawl into the bed alongside her, which he put down to his naturally possessive nature. Having a woman in his bed was something he’d always enjoyed for the obvious reason, but his need to hold her was a more primal compulsion. Protective, certainly, but an assertion of his right, too. Octavia was his and, despite Primo’s plotting, would remain so.

Her recent surgery gave him the strength to show some decency, though. She needed her rest and he wanted her to have it.

Somehow he had disturbed her, however, because he’d barely dozed off when she awoke, pulling away from his light fingers against the pulse in her wrist, giving him an inscrutable look he could barely read in the filtered city light that slid past the vertical blinds.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said, hearing the rasp of fatigue in his voice.

“What time is it? I should check on Lorenzo, see if he’s hungry.” She tried to push herself to sit.

“I was just in there.” He leaned forward to touch her shoulder, feeling her stiffen under the weight of his fingertips. It wasn’t the first time she’d reacted with something like rejection, which disturbed him. “He was sleeping,” he said, pretending he hadn’t noticed, offering a reassuring caress that she retreated from by dropping onto her back. “The nurse said she’d come for you when he wakes.”