I scream.
It’s not a moan of pleasure or a gasp of surprise. It is a jagged, raw scream of physical pain. My entire body goes rigid, my back arching violently off the mattress as tears spring instantly to my eyes, spilling over my temples into my hairline.
Cassio freezes.
He stops so abruptly, so completely, it’s as if he has just been struck by lightning.
He is buried only an inch inside me, stopped dead by the unmistakable, unyielding resistance of my hymen. His massive body goes perfectly still. The heavy, ragged sound of his breathing cuts off in the silent room.
I am sobbing now, short, hyperventilating gasps, my eyes squeezed shut against the pain and the sheer, overwhelminghumiliation of the reveal. I wait for the insult. I wait for him to laugh, to call me a pathetic, untouched spinster who couldn't even give away her virginity to the man she wanted.
But the silence lingers.
Slowly, I open my eyes.
Cassio is staring down at me. The violent, possessive rage that had been driving him for the last hour has completely vanished, wiped clean from his face as if it had never existed. His skin is pale, his jaw slack. His black eyes, usually so cold and unreadable, are blown wide with a shock so profound it borders on horror.
He looks at my tear-stained face. He looks at my tense, trembling body beneath him. And then, he looks down at where we are connected, where he is currently pressing against the physical proof of my innocence.
"You..." His voice is a broken, hoarse whisper, completely devoid of the Don's authority. He sounds like a man who has just woken up on the edge of a cliff.
He slowly, carefully releases his iron grip on my wrists.
I don't move. I can't. The pain is a sharp, throbbing ache radiating through my pelvis, but the terror of his reaction is far worse. I pull my arms down, crossing them defensively over my bare chest, trying to shield myself from his gaze.
Cassio doesn't look away. His eyes track the movement of my hands, landing on the way I am trembling, the way I am looking at him with absolute, unconcealed fear.
"You're a virgin," he says.
It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact, spoken with a reverence and a devastation that I completely fail to understand.
"I didn't..." I choke on a sob, my voice sounds tiny and pathetic in the massive room. "I never... Dario never touched me."
A violent shudder rips through Cassio’s massive frame. He curses, a harsh, violent stream of Italian profanity hissed between his clenched teeth.
Before I can brace myself, he pulls back. He withdraws from me completely, and the sudden absence of his heat leaves me cold and empty. He rolls off me, his movements are jerky and erratic, like a man who has just realized he was about to set a priceless painting on fire.
He sits on the edge of the bed, his back to me. He runs both of his hands through his dark hair, gripping the strands tightly, his elbows resting on his knees. His broad, heavily tattooed back is rising and falling with harsh, uneven breaths.
I scramble backward on the bed, pulling the charcoal sheets up to my chin to cover my nakedness. I press my back against the headboard, pulling my knees to my chest, making myself as small as possible.
I feel a warm, slow trickle of blood trail down my inner thigh.
I have been exposed. The rumors were a lie. My father’s disgust was a lie. I am exactly what my world demands a woman to be, pure, untouched, obediently waiting for her husband, and yet, I feel more degraded in this moment than I did when Cassio was calling me a whore.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Cassio’s voice breaks the silence. He doesn't turn around. His tone is unrecognizable. It isn't angry. It isn't mocking. It sounds hollowed out, entirely stripped of its dangerous edge.
"Because you hated me," I whisper, my voice cracking, the tears are flowing freely now. "Because you said I was a pawn. You said you didn't want Dario Lombardi's leftovers. If I told you the truth... if I told you I was untouched... I thought you would use it against me. I thought you would realize my father tricked you twice."
Cassio flinches. The wordtrickedhits him like a bullet.
He slowly turns his head, looking over his shoulder at me. The moonlight catches the sharp angles of his face. The monster who stormed into my room thirty minutes ago, ready to break me just to prove he could, is gone.
In his place is a man completely undone.
He looks at me huddled against the headboard, clutching the sheets to my chest, my face is streaked with tears. His eyes drop to the dark smear of my blood on the pristine sheets between us.
His jaw clenches. A dark, terrifying possessiveness, different from the angry jealousy of before, something infinitely deeper and more dangerous floods his features.