His mother put her hand on the count’s sleeve, face turned up to her son, and said, “No, bello. We’re going to let this happen. It’s been a long time coming.”
For some reason, that made hope squeeze Octavia so tightly she ached. Part of her was terrified—not because her husband looked as though he was on the last peg of his control, but because she was afraid he wasn’t. She was afraid he was merely upset about her taking Lorenzo, that it had nothing to do with her.
So she did the unthinkable. She goaded him.
“Fine!” she shouted, picking up the car seat and moving it to the bottom of the front steps where she set Lorenzo safely in the shade. “That’s all you ever wanted from me anyway. Keep your son, then. But I’m leaving!”
She pivoted and marched to the car, throat so tight she couldn’t breathe. This was too big a gamble. What if he let her go? She forced herself to turn at the open door of the car to shoot him a last, defiant look. To see what he thought of her threat.
He was no longer standing on the balcony. He’d climbed over the rail and was dangling from the bottom of it.
She clapped her hand over the squeak that left her mouth, terrified as he dropped onto the upper terrace with a thump.
“Nonna just rolled over in her grave. She hated when you did things like that,” Sandro’s sister told him as he straightened.
He ignored her, parting the crowd with nothing more than his unwavering sense of purpose as he headed for the rail overlooking the lawn. He vaulted as casually as he’d dropped from the top balcony, landing on the grass in a low, agile crouch.
Octavia’s heart finally started again. She sucked in a stunned breath, gaze fixed on him to be sure he was okay.
He straightened to his full height and gave his shirt a nonchalant pull across his shoulders then tugged each cuff, gaze flashing silvery and livid. “Now. Explain to me again what the hell you think you’re doing.”
She had wanted to unleash the beast. Here he was, control shattered to reveal the dangerous inner animal that operated on pure instinct. Hunter, warrior, slayer. He was terrifying in his magnificence.
She did the only thing anyone could do when faced with such an untamed force. She turned and ran like hell.
Except she was wearing terrible shoes and his long strides crunched louder and faster behind her making her scream even before his arm snagged her. She started to buckle, but he caught her and the world spun. She wound up over his shoulder like a sack of flour as he strode back to the house.
She screamed again, kicking this time, and punched at his backside. “Put me down!”
“No.”
She gripped around his waist so she wouldn’t bounce and opened her mouth against his back.
“Bite me, cara, and I will bite you right back,” he warned.
“You’re making a fool of yourself!” she cried.
“I’m making a fool of both of us. Someone bring Lorenzo inside. Look after him while I deal with my wife,” he said as they approached the front steps.
“Sandro, her surgery,” Octavia’s mother reminded in a surprisingly strong assertion, standing outside her car, purse gripped anxiously in her white hands.
He swore and paused on the stairs. The world spun again as he swung Octavia into the cradle of his arms. “Did I hurt you?” he asked with real concern.
“No. Yes,” she corrected, so devastated by his rejection of her heart, she could barely look at him, but she did. She let him see how he’d stripped her down to a naked bud then crushed her under his heel. She wanted his love so badly. How dare he withhold it from her?
His expression twisted with remorse.
Above them, Ysabelle said dreamily, “I remember the first time his father carried me kicking and screaming into the house. Sandro was born nine months later.”
Sandro bit out a curse and hefted Octavia higher against his chest as he climbed the rest of the way up the stairs and jiggled the door open.
He carried her over the threshold.
She caught her breath, sentimental enough to be ridiculously delighted by the action. Her eyes blurred with tears and the interior was dark after the brightness of the day. She could barely see, but he didn’t hesitate as he crossed the foyer. He held her tighter as he took the stairs two at a time and didn’t stop until they were in their room. There he kicked the door shut and crossed to set her on the bed.
She scrambled up and off it just as quickly as he dumped her there. He moved to close the balcony doors, but kept an eye on her. There was no way she’d make it to the hall door before he would be on her again.
Part of her was tempted to make that happen. It would turn into sex. In this moment, feeling as upside down as she did emotionally, turning this into a sexual battle seemed like the safer bet. Words might be hard. They might hurt. Sex would feel good, if empty.