Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 68858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
The playful light in Mateo’s eyes vanished instantly, replaced by something far more dangerous.
His grip on my hips tightened, his fingers digging into my skin just enough to make his displeasure known. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice suddenly void. "You are home."
I stared up at him, my heart pounding. "Mateo, I can't just stay here. I have a life outside of this…outside of you."
His eyes narrowed slightly, and before I could continue, he hushed me with a gentle finger against my lips. "There's no need to ruin a perfectly good morning with unnecessary arguments. Let’s not start the day with tension." His tone was calm, but the underlying firmness made it clear that he wasn’t asking for my opinion. He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and I knew better than to push the issue.
“At least let’s have breakfast first,” he suggested, though it was more of a command than a suggestion. His hand remained on my hip as he guided me down the hall, his grip firm yet somehow reassuring.
We walked in silence, the tension from our earlier conversation still hanging in the air, but Mateo’s demeanor had shifted back to something more relaxed, almost casual. He led me out a rear door, and we stepped into the fresh morning air.
As we rounded the corner, the backyard came into view. The terracotta stone patio led the way to a sleek glass dining table, already laid out with an impressive spread. The table was set with fresh food—assorted fruits glistening with dew, warm pastries that filled the air with a buttery aroma, and a selection of cheeses and cured meats arranged artfully on a platter. It was the kind of breakfast that could have been pulled straight from the pages of a luxury magazine, every detail meticulously crafted.
Mateo pulled out a chair for me, a small gesture that felt almost out of place given the gravity of our situation, but I accepted it and sat down.
The serene setting was a stark contrast to the underlying tension I still felt, a reminder that despite the beauty surrounding me, I was not in control. He took his seat across from me, his eyes never leaving mine as if he could sense the turmoil simmering beneath my composed exterior.
“You need to eat, anjinho,” he said softly, but there was an unmistakable firmness beneath the gentle words. He wasn’t just suggesting; he was telling me.
Not wanting to push any boundaries, I reached for the bowl of fresh fruit, selected a few strawberries, and then moved on to a buttery croissant. The simple act of choosing food felt like a small victory in maintaining some semblance of control. As I took a tentative bite, Mateo reached for a decanter that sat on the table, filled with a rich amber liquid. He poured himself a glass of what I quickly identified as whiskey, the scent of it strong and smoky as he added a few ice cubes.
“Drink?” he offered, his eyes not leaving mine as he raised his glass slightly.
I shook my head, the thought of mixing alcohol with my medication once again, was enough to keep me from accepting. “No, thank you,” I replied, trying to keep my tone neutral.
Mateo nodded, seemingly unbothered by my refusal. He took a slow sip of his drink, savoring the taste before setting the glass down. “Now, why don’t you ask me what you wanted to last night?” he said, his voice low and deliberate. “About our agreement.”
The reminder of our earlier conversation hit me like a wave, and I realized there was no escaping this. I needed answers, and he knew it. I took another bite of my croissant, trying to buy myself a moment to collect my thoughts, but his unwavering gaze told me that time was running out. I swallowed and finally met his eyes. It was time to confront the reality of what I was getting into.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I hesitated; the words caught in my throat as I considered how to phrase the questions swirling in my mind. Mateo’s presence was overwhelming, a constant reminder that the stakes here were high—too high for me to be anything less than direct.
Finally, I took a deep breath and set down the croissant, wiping my hands on the linen napkin. “What exactly do you expect from me?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. “What does being your wife really mean? I need to understand what I’m agreeing to, Mateo.”
He studied me for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing how much to reveal. The silence stretched between us, thick with tension, before he finally leaned back in his chair, swirling the whiskey in his glass as he spoke.
“Being my wife means many things,” he began, his tone measured.
“It means standing by my side, not just as a partner in name but as someone who understands the power and responsibility that comes with my world. It means loyalty, obedience, and knowing when to speak and when to be silent.” He paused, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made my pulse quicken. “It means you belong to me, utterly and completely, in every sense of the word.”