Chapter 8 Eight

• The library becomes my refuge over the next few weeks. It's the one place in the mansion where I feel comfortable, surrounded by books instead of priceless art.
• This morning, I curl into the window seat with a novel, but can't focus on the words. A wave of nausea rolls through me, stronger than it's been in days. I set the book down and lean my head against the cool glass, closing my eyes. The morning sickness should be easing by now, but today it's back with a vengeance.
• I don't hear the door open, only becoming aware of another presence when a shadow falls across me.
• "Ava?"
• I open my eyes to find Dante standing over me, his brow furrowed.
• "Are you ill?" he asks.
• "Just the usual pregnancy fun," I try to smile, but it feels weak.
• He studies my face. "You're pale."
• "I'm fine."
• He ignores my protest, turning to pour water from a crystal decanter on the desk. He brings the glass to me, standing close as he offers it.
• "Drink," he says, his voice softer than usual.
• I take the glass, our fingers brushing. The small contact sends a tingle up my arm. I sip slowly, aware of his eyes on me.
• "Better?" he asks.
• I nod. "Thank you."
• Instead of leaving, he sits beside me on the window seat. It's strange to see him here, in my sanctuary. Stranger still to see concern in his eyes.
• "Have you eaten today?" he asks.
• "I tried. Couldn't keep it down."
• He frowns. "Dr. Whitman should adjust your medication."
• "It's just a bad day. They happen."
• "You need to take care of yourself." His voice is low, gentle in a way I've rarely heard. "For the baby's sake... and for your own."
• The addition of "your own" surprises me. Usually, my wellbeing only matters in relation to the pregnancy.
• "I am trying," I say.
• He reaches out, his hand hovering for a moment before landing lightly on my arm. His touch is warm through the thin fabric of my sleeve. "I know."
• We sit in silence for a moment. I'm acutely aware of how close he is, of the subtle scent of his cologne. Wood and vanilla, expensive but not overwhelming.
• "You've been reading a lot," he says, nodding toward the book in my lap.
• "It passes the time."
• "Are you bored here?"
• "Sometimes." I see no point in lying.
• "What would make it better for you?"
• The question seems genuine. I consider it seriously. "Maybe... purpose. Something to do besides wait."
• He nods slowly. "I understand that need."
• For a moment, he looks almost vulnerable. Almost human. Then I notice a small smile tugging at his lips.
• "What?" I ask.
• "You have sauce on your face. From breakfast, I assume."
• My hand flies up, embarrassed. "Where?"
• Instead of telling me, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crisp white handkerchief. Then, with unexpected gentleness, he cups my chin with one hand and dabs at the corner of my mouth with the other.
• Time seems to stop. His face is inches from mine, his eyes focused on my lips. My heart pounds against my ribs. His hand is strong but gentle, the touch of the soft fabric against my skin almost a caress.
• "There," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
• But he doesn't move away. His eyes meet mine, and something passes between us: a current of electricity, a mutual recognition of whatever this tension is.
• He's beautiful up close. The perfect lines of his face, the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, the slight shadow of stubble along his jaw. I find myself wondering what it would feel like to touch his face, to trace the line of his cheekbone with my fingertips.
• The thought shocks me. This is Dante Romano. The man who bought the use of my body. The man who controls every aspect of my life. The man who sees me as a vessel, not a person.
• Yet here I am, wanting to touch him. Wanting him to touch me.
• His thumb brushes the corner of my mouth, no longer cleaning but exploring. My lips part slightly, an involuntary response to his touch.
• His eyes darken, and something shifts in his expression. The tenderness is replaced by something more intense, almost possessive. His hand tightens slightly on my chin, not hurting but holding me in place.
• For a heartbeat, I think he might kiss me. For a heartbeat, I want him to.
• Then, as suddenly as it began, the moment breaks. He pulls back, standing abruptly. His face shutters, the vulnerability replaced by his usual mask.
• "I should let you rest," he says, his voice returning to its normal businesslike tone. "I'll have lunch sent up here instead of expecting you in the dining room."
• "Dante—" I start, not sure what I'm going to say.
• "I don't like seeing you unwell," he interrupts. "It's... unsettling."
• Then he turns and walks out of the library, his steps quick and purposeful. The door closes behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with my confusion.
• I touch the spot where his thumb brushed my lip. What just happened? What was that look in his eyes? Desire, possession, or something else entirely?
• And why am I disappointed that he left?
• I return to the window seat, hugging my knees to my chest. This is dangerous territory. Developing feelings for Dante Romano can only lead to heartbreak.
• He doesn't want me, he wants what I can give him. A child. An heir. Once that's delivered, I'll be dismissed from his life with a check and a thank you.
• Yet I can't deny the way my body responded to his touch. The way my heart raced when he was close. The way I wanted, just for a moment, to forget our arrangement and simply be a woman attracted to a man.
• I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, trying to regain my composure. Outside, gardeners trim the perfect hedges, maintaining the beautiful prison that surrounds me.
• Seven more months of this. Seven months of living in his house, eating his food, carrying his child. Seven months of these confusing feelings and charged moments.
• How will I survive with my heart intact?
• I don't know if I can. But I do know that whatever just happened between us has changed something. Crossed a line that can't be uncrossed.
• And despite all my warnings to myself, a part of me is eager to see what happens next.