She turns her face away, her jaw clenched so tight the bone looks like it might snap. "Shut up."
"No, let’s talk about your knight in shining armor," I hiss cruelly, catching her chin between my thumb and forefinger and forcing her to look at me. "He watched you rot in your father’s house. He let you take the reputation of a bitter spinster. He took you to his bed, he fucked you in secret, but he never put a ring on your finger. He made you a whore, not a wife."
"I am not a whore!" she screams, thrashing wildly against me, her nails digging desperately into my shoulders.
"Then act like my fucking wife!" I roar back, my grip on her arms tightening until my knuckles turn white. "Act like a woman who understands honor! You are embarrassing me, Noemi! You are tarnishing my name because you can't get over a pathetic boy who didn't even want to keep you!"
"You don't want me either!" she cries out, the fight suddenly morphing into a raw, bleeding devastation. She stops thrashing, her hands gripping the front of my shirt, her chest heaving against mine. "You told me at the altar! You told me I was a pawn! You said you would never touch me! So why do you care if I talk to him? Why does it matter to you, Cassio?!"
"Because you are mine!"
The words rip out of my throat with a primal, possessive violence that shocks even me.
I stare down at her. She is panting, her lips parted, her dark eyes wide and searching mine.
The proximity suddenly stops feeling like a tactical advantage and starts feeling like a trap. I can feel every soft curve of her body pressed against the hard angles of mine. I can feel the rapid-fire beat of her heart echoing through my own chest. The hatred simmering between us is still there, but it’s mutating.
It’s twisting into something darker. Something infinitely more dangerous.
The line between killing someone and fucking them is terrifyingly thin. It’s the same adrenaline. The same racing pulse. The same desperate need to dominate, to conquer, to break the person in front of you until they surrender completely.
I look at her mouth. I look at the full, red lips I bruised at the altar. I remember the taste of bitter resentment and expensive champagne.
She notices the shift in my gaze. Her breath hitches. The furious defiance in her eyes flickers, replaced by a sudden, electric awareness. She knows exactly what I’m thinking. She knows the violence has changed temperatures.
"Cassio," she whispers, a warning, a plea, I don't know which.
"You want to talk about Dario?" I murmur, my voice dropping to a rough pitch. I release her arms, but I don't step back. Instead, I slide my hands down to her waist, gripping her hips through the thin fabric of her sweatpants. "You want to obsess over a man who wouldn't claim you?"
She swallows hard, her throat working. "Let me go."
"No." I lean closer, my mouth brushing against the shell of her ear. She shivers violently, a full-body tremor that sends a jolt of pure, dominant satisfaction straight to my groin. "I told you I wouldn't touch you. I told you I didn't want Dario Lombardi's leftovers."
"Then leave," she breathes, though her hands haven't let go of my shirt. Her knuckles are white, her grip is desperate.
"I can't."
The admission tastes like ash, but it’s the goddamn truth. I can't leave. I haven't been able to stop thinking about her since the moment she walked down that aisle looking at me like I was the devil. I haven't been able to sleep knowing she is down the hall, wrapped in my sheets, breathing my air, and dreaming about another man.
I want to erase him. I want to burn Dario Lombardi out of her mind so completely that she forgets how to speak his fucking name.
I slide one hand up her side, my palm flat against her ribs, feeling the heat of her skin through the thin cotton of her tank top. I tangle my other hand in the thick, chaotic mess of her dark hair, wrapping my fingers around the heavy strands and pulling her head back, exposing the long, pale column of her throat.
"I am going to remind you who owns you," I whisper roughly against her skin.
I crash my mouth down onto hers.
It is an explosion. There is no gentleness. There is no romance. It is a collision of two people who despise each other, driven entirely by a dark, obsessive lust.
She gasps into my mouth, the sound is instantly swallowed by my tongue as I pry her lips apart. I taste her. For a split second, she pushes against my chest, a token resistance of a woman who hates everything I stand for.
But then the spark catches fire.
With a frustrated, guttural sound, Noemi’s hands slide up from my chest, her fingers tangle desperately in the hair at the nape of my neck. She pulls me closer, opening her mouth to me, kissing me back with a ferocity that matches my own. She bites my lower lip, a sharp sting of pain that sends a savage thrill straight down my spine.
"Goddamn it," I groan into her mouth, my control snapping completely.
I lift her off the ground. She wraps her legs around my waist instinctively, crossing her ankles behind my back. I walk us the three steps to the massive bed and drop her onto the charcoal sheets, following her down immediately.