Zoe Blake Book Excerpts
Welcome to temptation.
Here you’ll find exclusive excerpts and sneak peeks from Zoe Blake’s dark romance worlds—where power meets passion, and surrender is never simple. Each scene offers a taste of danger, desire, and the kind of love that leaves bruises on the soul. Step closer… and read what happens when good girls crave the wicked.
Brutal Heir Excerpt #2
Sabrina
Sebastian had found me.
From his clenched jaw to his furrowed brow, the man radiated rage.
The once-boisterous café stilled.
Even the musicians stopped playing, and all eyes turned to Sebastian Diamanti.
Behind me, my friends whispered in hushed tones, fragments of their conversation drifting to me.
“Diamonds.”
“Mafia.”
His firm hand settled on my shoulder. Warm, yet it chilled me to the bone—the touch of the devil himself.
I shrugged it off as I rose, determined not to appear cowed.
Unfortunately, the champagne I’d drunk also rose…straight to my head.
I swayed, my hand instinctively pressing against his chest for balance. His hand came down over mine, trapping it against the hard plane of his chest. His skin, tan and calloused, surprised me—a stark contrast to the polished businessmen I usually encountered.
I focused on his signet ring, its thick gold band bearing a black diamond at its center. The motion steadied me as I fought against the waves of dizziness.
Sebastian reached past me, snatching the nearly empty champagne bottle off the table. “How much of this did you drink?”
I leaned forward, narrowing my gaze to concentrate on the gold filigree label before answering with a small giggle. “Enough.”
More than enough, really, considering I’d barely slept or eaten in over twenty-four hours.
He slammed the bottle onto the table. “That’s it. Get your coat. We’re leaving.”
I shook off his grip and stepped back—or rather stumbled, colliding into the table behind me. It shook, sending glasses toppling. The champagne bottle tipped and rolled toward the edge.
With a cry, I lunged for it, knocking a plate of mushroom tartines onto the floor. The bottle slipped, shattering on the black-and-white marble tile.
Before I could kneel to pick up the shards, Sebastian’s hands clamped around my hips, pulling me back.
The unmistakable hardness of his body pressed against me.
My head snapped upright as I silently glowered at him, but he didn’t release me.
The café’s silent patrons fixed their gazes on the spectacle unfolding before them. I felt their judgment, their curiosity, their fear—but I couldn’t meet their eyes.
“The glass,” I murmured, still trying to lean forward.
“Leave it,” he growled into my ear, his arm tightening around my waist.
His hand slid higher, brushing just below my breast.
I froze, acutely aware of every inch of his body against mine.
“Where is your coat?”
I balled my hands into fists at my sides.
I’d hoped he’d forgotten. He hadn’t.
Every instinct in me screamed that Sebastian Diamanti was not a man to cross.
And I had just pissed him off by not obeying his summons.
Leaving my friends to venture into an unfamiliar city in the middle of the night with him was out of the question.
They would never find my body.
I forced the words out through clenched teeth. “I’m not leaving with you.”
His response was swift and brutal. “That’s what you think.”
The alcohol coursing through my veins gave me a false bravado as I turned to face him. “How did you even find me?”
One dark eyebrow arched. “Nothing is off limits to a man with my power and resources. You’d do well to remember that, Sabrina.”
The way he said my name sent a shiver down my spine.
He lifted my coat from the back of the chair and draped it over my shoulders. “I’m out of patience.”
I shrugged it off. “I can’t just leave. I haven’t even paid for my share of the bill.”
He placed the coat back on my shoulders with deliberate care. “Take it off again, and you won’t like what happens.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but his expression silenced me.
Instead, he reached into his suit pocket, pulled out a black leather billfold, and tossed an obscene amount of cash onto the table. “Next round is on Sabrina.”
The café erupted in cheers.
My friends, too drunk or too careless to notice the tension, reveled in the sudden windfall.
Meanwhile, Sebastian’s hold on my arm tightened as he pulled me out the door.
I dug in my heels. “This is insane! You’re acting like a jealous boyfriend. I don’t even know you!”
Before he could respond, Henri burst through the door behind us. “Hey! Let go of her.”
Sebastian turned slowly, his eyes narrowing. “This is none of your business. Go back inside.”
Henri puffed up his chest. “I’m not afraid of you or your money. She doesn’t want to leave with you.”
I stepped forward, desperate to diffuse the situation. “It’s fine, Henri. I’ll handle this.”
Henri ignored me, raising his fists. “If you don’t let go of my girl, you’ll regret it.”
Sebastian’s gaze snapped back to me.
His lips thinned, and he cocked his head, sizing up Henri. Without warning, he lunged, his hand clamping around Henri’s throat and slamming him against the brick wall.
“What did you just call her?”
Henri’s eyes bulged as he clawed at Sebastian’s wrist. “Nothing! She’s nobody!”
My chest burned hot. Taking advantage of Sebastian’s distraction, I shoved my arms into my coat and stormed off into the night.
I didn’t get far.
Within moments, Sebastian’s arm curled around my waist, lifting me off the ground.
“Let go!” I kicked, but he carried me effortlessly into a recessed doorway. The stone wall scraped against my spine. Cold seeped through my shoes from the marble threshold.
His fingers encircled my throat, firm but not crushing.
“You broke rule number one.”
Don’t disobey him.
I searched past him for help.
Did I dare cry out?
Would it be fair to endanger a stranger after seeing what happened to Henri?
I stared at the pattern on his silk tie. “I didn’t think it was a formal invitation. I figured you were just being nice to me or something.”
Despite the champagne bubbles bouncing around my brain, even I knew there wasn’t a chance in hell he would buy that excuse. Lame didn’t even begin to cover it.
He leaned in closer. “Do I look like someone who does something just to be nice?”
I opened my mouth to respond but closed it almost instantly. “I… I’m not sure.”
“The answer is no, Sabrina. I asked you to dinner this evening because I wanted to spend more time with you.”
My pulse fluttered in a warning. This was going to make it worse—but I couldn’t stay silent.
After fidgeting with the ring on my right hand in agitation, I bit my lip, searching for the right response. “Strictly speaking, you didn’t ask me to dinner. It was more of a command.”
The muscles in his jaw tightened.
Crap. That was definitely not the right thing to say.
His thumb caressed my lower lip where I had bitten it. “Why do you insist on angering me?”
My lip trembled under his touch. “I’m not trying to anger you. I just…don’t understand.”
He tilted his head slightly. “What is there to understand?”
“You can’t be serious.”
His hand shifted to tilt my head back. The warm metal of his signet ring pushed into my skin, branding me. “I’m always serious.”
I wrapped my hand around his wrist. “How did you know my name?” I blurted out.
“What?”
“My name. At the party, you mentioned my full name. I never gave it to you.” Before he could respond, I cut him off. “Don’t even try to say you heard it from Édouard. We both know that’s a lie.”
Édouard barely remembered his own mother’s name, let alone the name of a lowly up-and-coming fashion stylist hired to style his social media posts, not the more prestigious Vogue shoot.
His fingers tightened on my face for a fleeting second.
My heart stopped beating.
Then he smiled.
And it somehow made everything worse.
“You’re smart. It makes all this so much easier.”
The champagne gave me false courage. “Did you know who I was before we bumped into each other today?”
“Yes.”
I blinked. I couldn’t say for certain what answer I expected, but stark honesty didn’t make the list.
Even as I said it, another thought pierced my chest.
Sebastian was Italian.
What if he knew who my father was?
I used my mother’s name, Badalamenti, but hadn’t Sebastian just told me that money could buy him anything? Had he somehow learned I was Judge Delluci’s illegitimate daughter?
What if my father sent him?
I’d brushed her off, tired of her constant overprotective smothering. I wanted a life and a career. I couldn’t let my mother’s irrational fears rule my life any longer.
What if I’d just signed my own death warrant?
I pushed against his chest, but he didn’t budge. “Are you working with my father? Are you stalking me?”
“No, piccolo. I don’t stalk. I came to Paris to find you.”
Find me?
There it was again.
The one word that kept repeating over and over in my head almost since the moment I met him.
Run.
I struggled to free myself, clawing at his coat. “Please, don’t hurt me.”
With his hand wrapped around my throat, I barely heard his response over my panic. “That will depend on you.”
His mouth claimed mine.
My struggles only seemed to fuel him as he pressed his body more firmly against mine.
I should’ve screamed.
Instead, I kissed him back.
When I fought to keep my lips closed, he squeezed my throat until I opened them on a gasp.
His tongue pushed inside.
He wasn’t kissing me. He was consuming me.
His head slanted to deepen the kiss, his dominance overwhelming.
The press of his arousal against my stomach scorched away any remaining thoughts of resistance.
It was as if I were drowning. Submerged in silent weightlessness, yet still facing the threat of death.
I clenched fistfuls of fabric as I fought to stay above the water.
I lost the battle.
Did anyone ever go to war with Sebastian Diamanti and win?
It intoxicated me to be forced to submit to his embrace. Men my age were so hesitant to offend. So polite.
But Sebastian appealed to a dark, hidden desire inside of me.
A desire I didn’t dare express. One that yearned for a man to have the confidence, the experience, the arrogance, to force me against a wall and just take what he wanted. A man who was so overcome with the need to kiss me, he couldn’t fathom waiting another moment, not even to ask for consent.
He deepened the kiss.
My heartbeat tripped, then pounded faster, drowning everything else out.
The problem was—reality and fantasy were two very different things.
There was a reason men like that needed to stay between the pages of books. Because in real life, there were real consequences for letting a man become unleashed.
I shoved him back, fighting for breath.
My head swam as each glass of champagne I’d drunk seemed to hit my bloodstream all at once. The world spun and flipped.
Sebastian clasped my face with both hands.
His mouth moved, but the words sounded muffled, lost underwater.
His name rang in my ears. That’s when I let go.
And the Eiffel Tower in the distance tilted…and tilted…
He caught me before I hit the ground.
His mouth formed a word—a curse or my name, I couldn’t tell.
My body went limp as darkness swallowed me whole.
Brutal Heir Excerpt
Sebastian
The surveillance photos hadn’t done her justice.
In the bitter chill of late October, the wind tore through the piazza, whipping her black hair across her face.
I curled my hand. I could already feel those strands wrapped around my fist.
She was ignorant of the blood-soaked empires her father and I ruled from the shadows, and of the silent war between our families.
Well, if her father wanted to play dirty—wanted to steal the House of Diamanti, my family’s dynasty, out from under me—then so be it.
I’d take his daughter.
From the warm comfort of my Mercedes S-Class’s heated leather seats, I watched her undetected.
Sabrina Dolce Badalamenti.
A pretty little pawn in my vengeful game.
The photos hadn’t captured the subtle tilt of her chin, the way her lip caught between her teeth when she was nervous.
She turned in a slow circle, scanning the street signs with visible confusion, then swiped her hand over her hip—reaching for a phone that wasn’t there.
So. She was alone.
In an unfamiliar city.
Lost.
No phone.
I shook my head. She was making this too easy.
Her slight frame shivered in the cold.
Where the fuck is her coat?
Rain had drenched Paris for days.
She should’ve bundled up.
Someone should take her in hand.
I rolled down the rain-speckled window. The tinted glass blurred her figure, keeping her just out of reach.
The sharp tang of car exhaust and the muddy stench of the nearby Seine filtered in.
She continued scanning her surroundings, bewildered.
Her innocence struck me. It didn’t matter that she was twenty-four—she looked untouched by the world.
Vulnerable.
The perfect prey.
Her mother had tried to protect her.
Sheltered her, hoarded her away from danger.
But in doing so, she’d only turned Sabrina into the ultimate prize.
Men like me didn’t share our toys.
We liked them shiny and new.
Virginal.
My brother Rafaello broke into my thoughts. “Are you really going through with this?”
I leaned back and pressed a button to raise the privacy screen between us and the driver. “Do you have a better plan to save the House of Diamanti?”
I raked a hand through my hair.
What the fuck did he expect me to do?
I’d wanted to kill the judge and be done with it.
Rafaello was the one who insisted the bastard was too high profile, that his murder would draw too much heat.
He was the one who told me to show restraint.
Well, this was me being restrained.
Forcing the judge’s daughter under my control—and into my bed—was mercy compared to what I wanted to do.
She should be grateful I was giving her the illusion of a choice.
Rafaello rubbed his jaw. “I admit we’re fucked right now,” he muttered, nodding toward Sabrina. “But she’s not involved in this. She’s innocent. You’re going to ruin her life just because—”
“We all bear the burden of our family’s treachery,” I interrupted. “She’s no different.”
“Fine. Forget her. What about you? You really want to burn down your own life over this?”
I flicked a piece of lint off my cashmere overcoat. “Saving the Diamanti legacy isn’t burning it down. It’s preserving it.”
“At what cost?”
I laid a hand on his shoulder. “Your concern is touching, little brother. But my mind’s made up.”
I returned my gaze to her.
For the briefest moment, she seemed to look right at me.
My pulse kicked up.
Could she sense it? The danger circling her?
I smirked. “Seeing her now, you must concede—it’s hardly a great sacrifice.”
Rafaello leaned his elbow along the backrest. “Looks aren’t everything. She might be a handful.”
I brushed my belt buckle with my fingers and raised a brow. “I’d be bored if she wasn’t.”
He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “Well, good luck. First, you’ll have to lure her to Italy. The reports said her mother raised her to fear setting foot in Rome.”
The rain had darkened Sabrina’s curls to a deep, inky black.
For a moment, I went still.
I was done waiting.
“Lure her?” I laughed. “She’ll either come willingly or tied up over my shoulder. Either way, she’ll be in Italy by the end of the week.”
A minor detail like consent wouldn’t obstruct my goals.
I didn’t need her agreement.
Only her presence.
Sabrina pivoted, turning down a darkened alley—away from the street, away from the tourists.
Perfect.
I stepped out of the car and gave my driver instructions to drop Rafaello off and circle back.
Then I bent and looked through the open door one last time.
I flashed my brother a cold smile. “Time to introduce myself to my future bride.”
My Sweet Posion: Spicy Excerpt
I tried to climb out of the tub again. My foot slipped from under me before I could gain any traction.
Pierce grabbed my legs and pulled until my body slid under the hot bath water.
I flipped onto my back and rose, sputtering and gasping for breath.
Everything around me was a maelstrom of splashing water, bubbles floating in the air, grasping limbs, flashes of lightning, and the still ever present rumble of thunder shaking the windows.
I pushed myself up to a seated position, dragging air into my lungs, and clinging to the sides of the tub.
The moment I did, he claimed my mouth, breathing his own oxygen back into my lungs as he pushed us both back under the water.
As he did, he pried open my thighs and pushed his hips between them.
My lungs were on fire.
The moment I broke the surface and felt the euphoric rush of my lungs expanding with sweet air, Pierce thrust back inside me.
He anchored my knees to my sides, sealed his mouth over mine, and dragged us both back under the water, thrusting into me while kissing me, literally breathless.
He was killing me and kissing me at the same time.
We were fighting and f*cking.
I teetered on the verge of death, but this was still the most alive I had ever felt.
Both held and yet restrained by him.
Pierce’s c*ck swelled inside me, becoming impossibly thick, just on this side of too much. I knew in that moment, he was releasing his sweet poison into me.
Twisted Proposal: Chapter One
Chapter 1
I knew taking this meeting was a mistake the moment I agreed to it.
Zaitsev had been relentless, hounding me for days, desperate for a deal.
That alone set my teeth on edge.
Desperate men made reckless decisions.
And Zaitsev? He was a fool. Brash, impulsive, lacking the foresight needed to survive in our world. And his son, Matvey, was even worse.
When I pulled up to the isolated cabin nestled deep in the Virginia woods, my instincts screamed danger. It was too remote, too perfect for an ambush.
My men swept the perimeter while I waited in the Range Rover, my patience wearing thinner with each passing minute.
“Clear,” one of my men murmured through my earpiece.
I stepped out into the biting winter air, snow crunching beneath my boots. The cabin loomed before me, its windows glowing with warm light that promised a comfort I knew wouldn’t be found inside.
When I pushed open the heavy wooden door, the stench of fear hit me first.
Then I saw her.
Huddled on a weathered wooden chair in the center of the room, her head bowed, lush, chestnut brown hair spilling over her shoulders, hiding her face. Ropes cut into her wrists, binding her, but there was no mistaking the tension in her shoulders.
Fury burned through me, sharp and immediate.
My fingers twitched with the need to curl into a fist.
Zaitsev emerged from the shadows, his son lurking behind him like the coward he was. Both men grinned as if they’d presented me with a gift rather than a twisted indecency.
In my world, women were protected and sheltered from the brutal reality of our business.
“Artem, my friend.” He stretched out a hand in greeting.
“We are not friends.” I pointedly ignored his outstretched hand. “And I don’t recall giving you permission to use my given name.”
He hesitated, his son shifting uneasily behind him.
The air in the cabin grew thick with tension.
My men flanked the doorway, blocking any chance of escape.
A small sound came from the woman—not a cry or a whimper.
Just a sharp inhale of barely restrained pain.
My fury sharpened to a lethal edge.
I met Zaitsev’s eyes; he was going to see the moment I decided he wasn’t leaving this cabin alive.
“We had to secure our merchandise.” He gave a dismissive wave, dropping into a chair opposite his captive. “She can be…stubborn. Nothing a firm hand won’t fix.”
My gaze remained fixed on the woman bound in the chair.
I let the silence stretch like a stranglehold around his throat.
Zaitsev mistook it for patience. A deadly mistake.
He smirked. “I’ll get right to the point, then. I know you’re making moves in the States.”
He thought he knew something. Amusing.
“You shouldn’t put stock in rumors,” I said flatly. “Your men must be bored if they’ve taken to gossip.”
Zaitsev chuckled, like we were old friends sharing an inside joke. “A shift in power is coming.” He stood and circled the woman, placing his hands on her shoulders. She flinched. The small movement ignited something dark inside me. “This is my daughter.”
A muscle in my jaw twitched.
Daughter.
I glanced at her, then back at him, my face unreadable.
What kind of man tied up his own flesh and blood?
“I’d rather not have her running wild, like these American women,” he continued, oblivious to my growing rage. “She could be useful.”
Useful.
The word curdled in my gut.
“She’s not much to look at,” he added, waving a hand like she was a piece of livestock. “But she’ll make a good wife. Quiet. Won’t ask questions. Won’t expect fidelity.” He grinned and winked. “And, of course, this marriage would come with certain advantages.”
I stared at him. Silent. Calculating.
One of the few useful lessons my father had ever taught me—silence was a weapon.
Zaitsev, arrogant as ever, mistook it for interest. He kept talking, filling the space with his own noise.
“I wouldn’t expect you to marry her, of course,” he went on. “She’s beneath an Ivanov. But a loyal underling? Someone who needs a reward, perhaps.”
Beneath an Ivanov.
Fucking idiot.
I let my gaze shift back to her.
She sat stiffly in her bonds, her spine straight despite her restraints, not in submission, but in defiance. A woman holding herself together by sheer will.
I needed to see her face.
Look up, I silently commanded.
She didn’t move.
But then, a flicker.
Just for a fraction of a second, dark blue eyes met mine.
And I saw the truth.
Zaitsev was wrong.
His daughter wasn’t plain. Far from it. She was beautiful.
But more important than that, she was furious. Not afraid. Not broken.
She wasn’t cowering. She was calculating. Waiting. Biding her time.
My interest deepened.
Then I saw it, the shadow of a bruise forming on her cheek.
The pounding in my ears grew deafening.
He hit her. Hard.
This man, who dared stand across from me and prattle on about alliances, had raised a hand to his own daughter. Had tied her in a chair in a freezing cabin wearing barely anything but a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.
He thought our families were alike.
He thought we were the same.
He thought wrong.
“Of course,” he said, still unaware he’d already sealed his fate, “she is merely a gesture of goodwill. The real deal is in the contracts. My men will run girls from Russia straight through to California. No one will touch them if they belong to the Ivanovs. And you? You’ll get a cut.”
My lip curled.
Ivanovs did not get involved in the sex trade, in any form. Period.
He leaned against the cabin wall, smug. His son slouched beside him, picking at his teeth, unconcerned.
I inhaled deeply, letting the rage simmer just below the surface.
Control. Always control.
I turned my attention back to her.
“What’s her name?” I asked.
Zaitsev blinked, as if surprised I cared enough to ask. “Viktoria.”
Viktoria.
I let the name settle. Let the weight of it press against my ribs.
“Do we have a deal?” Zaitsev asked.
I looked at my right-hand man and gave a single nod.
The gun was out before Zaitsev even registered the movement.
His son lunged for a weapon.
My men were faster.
Zaitsev senior was pinned to the rough-hewn table, a gun pressed to the back of his skull. His son restrained on the wood floor, zip ties cutting into his wrists, a boot pressing into his spine.
Their pathetic cries and pleas were white noise as I focused on the soft rasp of Viktoria’s breathing.
I crossed to her, pulling a knife from my pocket. Her eyes widened as I approached, but she didn’t flinch when I bent to cut her bonds. The ropes fell away.
I took her wrists in my hands. So pale and fragile, as if I were holding the bones of a bird. My thumb swept across the angry red welts.
She shivered and tried to pull back.
My fingers closed around her wrists. “You’ve heard what your father and brother planned,” I said. “What do you want?”
She refused to respond.
Accustomed to being obeyed, I leaned forward, resisting the urge to brush her hair away from her face. “Viktoria? I asked you a question.”
After a long moment, the lush black fans of her lashes shifted. She lifted her gaze to clash with mine.
There was cold fury in their ocean depths.
She was something different.
Something unexpected.
She swallowed. “I—I didn’t hear.”
Liar. It was clear her refusal to answer had more to do with ill-advised defiance.
Her voice wavered. Not in weakness. In restraint.
My hands moved to the tops of her bare thighs, my fingertips brushing the hem of her cloth shorts as I stood. “Tell me what you want, princess.”
Fierce Pursuit: Chapter One
Chapter 1
The moment I saw him, my world crashed around me.
Konstantine. My brother-in-law…and my sister’s killer.
The diner’s fluorescent lights flickered, casting a dull glow over red leather booths and the cracked linoleum floor, but all I could see was him from where I stood staring through the crack between the two kitchen doors.
Sitting at the farthest table, back to the wall, piercing blue eyes scanning the room like a predator assessing his surroundings.
My stomach twisted, bile rising in my throat.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
How?
I had been so careful.
No credit cards.
No social media.
I’d stayed in my lane, kept my head down, worked this dead-end job just to survive.
And yet, he was here.
He had found me.
Panic clawed at my chest, but I fought to keep my expression neutral. The last thing I needed was to alert the rest of the staff there was an issue. They would ask questions I couldn’t answer. My fingers clenched into fists, my nails digging into my palms, the slight pain grounding me as I abandoned my post at the kitchen doors and returned to the plate of fries I no longer wanted.
“Oh my God, Marina! He is so freaking hot!”
Anna’s shriek made me flinch, bringing me back to the moment.
I snapped my gaze to her as she pushed through the kitchen doors, a whirlwind of neon-pink nails and endless energy weaving past the cooks.
She didn’t know.
She didn’t understand that the man she was ogling was the reason my sister was dead.
I forced a fry into her hand, hoping the simple act would shut her up and give me a second to think. But Anna was relentless, bouncing with excitement.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded, taking a seat across from me at the tiny break table. “I mean, Marina, seriously, why didn’t you tell me you were dating the hottest man in Chicago?”
“I’m not,” I said automatically, barely registering her words.
My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might crack my ribs.
Anna scoffed. “Then why did he ask for your section?”
She grabbed my wrist and yanked me up before I could protest, dragging me toward the doors leading to the dining area. “Girl, if you’re not dating him, can I have him? Because that man is sex on a stick. I tried everything—flirty eyes, lip biting, even the cleavage lean, and he didn’t even blink. He only wanted you.”
I barely heard her.
My vision tunneled as I peered through the crack between the doors.
He hadn’t changed.
Konstantine Nikolai Ivanov, Kostya to his friends, of which there were few, still looked devastatingly handsome in that cold, lethal way that made people both fear and respect him.
Broad shoulders, sharp jaw, dark hair just long enough for a woman to sink her fingers into. He had been intimidating even before he married my sister, before he became a name whispered in the dark corners of Russia.
And now he was here.
For me.
Anna’s voice broke through my spiral. “So, who is that? Does he have a brother?”
“He does,” I murmured, my throat dry as dust. “Two. But they’re not your type.”
“Damn.” She sighed, oblivious to the way my body was locked up in sheer terror. “So he’s yours, then?”
“No,” I whispered. “He’s my brother-in-law.”
Anna blinked. “Wait, what? You never told me you had a sister who was married to a freaking Russian god.”
I swallowed hard. My hands trembled at my sides, but I kept my face carefully blank. “She’s dead.”
“Oh,” Anna said, her enthusiasm temporarily dimming. “Car accident?”
I forced myself to nod. “Something like that.”
The words tasted like acid.
I couldn’t say it, not out loud.
That he had killed her.
That my sister’s blood was on his hands.
That if I didn’t leave right now, mine would be too.
Anna kept talking, something about how a man like that had to be ready to move on. But I couldn’t hear her anymore.
All I heard was the blood rushing in my ears.
I had to get the hell out of here.
He hadn’t seen me yet.
That was the only advantage I had.
If I ran now, I might have a chance.
But I needed a distraction.
Forcing my lips into what I hoped was a convincing smile, I turned to Anna. “Actually, do me a favor? Go talk to him for me. Tell him I haven’t come in for my shift yet. Get his drink order, maybe flirt a little.”
Anna’s eyes lit up. “Girl, you do not have to ask me twice.” She fluffed her hair, adjusted her bra, and strutted out into the dining room.
The moment she had his attention, I turned and bolted.
I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to Babushka, the owner, who had been so kind to me.
It didn’t matter.
All that mattered was getting out before Konstantine saw me.
Because if he did…I was dead.
Scorn of the Betrothed: Chapter One
“Bad girl, swaying your hips like this in front of other men—when you’re supposed to be mine.”
A powerful arm had wrapped around my waist from behind and snatched me to a man’s chest before he leaned down to rasp in my ear.
In shock, I craned my neck to stare into a pair of piercing dark eyes, glaring at me from behind an elaborate black leather Carnevale devil’s mask covering the upper portion of the man’s face. The rest of him was dressed in unrelenting midnight black, from his heavy brocade jacket and tails to his tall riding boots.
His?
I twisted around in his grip to press my palms against his chest and push, trying to break free of his grasp.
For nothing.
The man’s chest was harder than a brick wall.
While it may be common practice for drunken men to touch and grab the women in the crowd during the wanton revelry of Carnevale, this was different.
His intense gaze raised the hairs on the back of my neck. A primal reaction to being caught in a predator’s sights, to be sure.
And what the hell did he mean by “when you’re supposed to be mine?”
Shaking off the increasing panic which twisted my stomach, I tried to wrench away from him again as I fired back. “Parlari, tischi-toschi. Va eccati!”
He was clearly Italian and not a tourist, so I deliberately insulted him in Sicilian. I wouldn’t dare call him arrogant and pretentious before telling him to go jump in the sea in a language he could understand!
I wasn’t that brave.
His lips twisted in a smirk. “Christa e a zita, muoviti ddruocu, colomba mia birichina.”
Accept your fate and don’t move.
I froze.
He had responded using two nonsensical, slang Sicilian phrases that only someone familiar with the language and culture would know.
He had also called me colomba mia birichina.
My naughty little dove.
My fingers clawed at the brocade of his costume, panic tightening my throat even as a spark of awareness seemed to warm my insides.
It could be nothing…
Dressed as the popular character Colombina from the Commedia dell’Arte in keeping with this year’s Carnevale theme, his calling me little dove, the literal translation of her name, was not significant.
Except that it felt significant in a territorially possessive sort of way.
The pounding of the blood in my ears warred with the pounding drums from the live music only steps away.
Who was this man? And why was he so fixated on bothering me, when there were countless half-dressed, fully drunk women gyrating and attempting to twerk he could choose from?
The chaos of the Palermo Carnevale ebbed and flowed all around us, a dizzying kaleidoscope of shattered crystal shards in crimson, cobalt, amethyst, and jade. Revelers danced feverishly to the pounding beat of the tambourines from the pizzica tarantelle performed in the center of the Piazza Garraffello.
His arm tightened around my waist, pushing our hips together. “Stop fighting me, little dove. You can’t win.”
My feet were lifted off the ground as he swung me in an arch, moving in time with the music.
The mandolins, violins, and high-pitched, plaintive cries of the female singers lyrically calling out for lost lovers added a Dionysian, almost unhinged, energy to the night.
As he carried me off, closer and closer to the edge of the crowd, the tips of my shoes scraped along the smooth, worn cobblestones of the piazza.
I gripped his shoulders and arched my back, still trying to break free. “You’re making a mistake!”
Clearly, this was some suitor of my twin sister, Antonia.
He had to be. It was the only explanation for the way he was holding me.
His hand moved down my lower back. “Are you trying to get out of your punishment?”
Sciatiri e matri!
Punishment? Had he said punishment? No. He couldn’t have. Furiously I scanned my brain for another word—any other word—I could have mistaken for the word punishment over the loud music.
My mouth opened on a choked cry as he cupped my ass and growled, “This cute ass is going to feel the sting of my belt. I’m going to teach you a lesson about flaunting your body for anyone else but me.”
Before I could shake off my stunned reaction and respond, we were both shoved by the crowd surrounding us. The sudden impact loosened his grasp just enough for me to finally twist free.
I ducked low to squeeze between two revelers before snaking through the dense crowd. Jostled by the throng, I pitched sideways, too afraid to glance back at my pursuer.
All around me the air reeked of sweat, cheap wine, and fried food. The fabrics of the rented Commedia dell’Arte costumes exuded a musty scent of dust, mothballs, and neglect.
There were swaggering men dressed as Pulcinella with their gnarled nose masks askew and their bulging stomachs barely contained within the thin white linen of their ruffled tunics. A number of smarmy Pantalones in flowing black capes and pointed nose masks. And countless women dressed as sexy Pierrots with black-and-white striped thigh-highs under laced corsets complimenting their pouting, sad clown makeup. My sister being one of them, with the exception of her thigh-high leather boots.
Not wearing a mask here was a mistake. A mask gave people anonymity, which most used as a license for lecherous behavior. Many would argue that was the true soul and purpose of Carnevale. To have one last debauched celebration before the austerity of Lent.
My sister certainly would agree.
How we could be twins and such polar opposites was beyond me.
I hissed as the stiffened collar of someone’s Harlequin costume scraped my bare shoulder. Again cursing my choice of Colombina, with her off-the-shoulder white peasant blouse and cumbersome petticoat skirt, as a costume.
Finally, I broke free of the crowd along the other side of the piazza, which was flanked by a crumbling brick wall covered in colorful graffiti, a sad remnant of World War II bombing. Dilapidated, broken, bombed-out buildings surrounded the entire piazza, giving it a forlorn yet strangely timeless aesthetic. No one bothered to repair them, despite their being located in Palermo’s center.
Welcome to Sicily.
I crept my way along the wall, wedged between the swelling crowd and the powdery rubble of the decaying bricks, searching for my contact.
A clandestine meeting with him was the only reason I was here tonight.
Certainly not to take part in the drunken festivities like my sister. My contact had said the chaos of Carnevale would be the perfect cover. No one could overhear our conversation.
For a split second, I thought the man who grabbed me was my contact. He had certainly been making enough unwanted advances of late, but no. This man was too tall, too strong, too everything to be the desk-bound bureaucratic attorney I was meeting with.
And it was imperative that I met with him.
Time had run out.
I had fulfilled my end of our bargain. It was past time for my contact to fulfill his.
Otherwise, my father would…
A hand wrapped around my upper arm and threw me backward against the wall. A warm body pressed into my front, pinning me against the bricks.
I opened my mouth to scream but never got the chance.
The man from earlier had found me.
His mouth descended on mine, cutting off my attempt to cry for help, not that I’d be heard over the festival music.
His lips smashed mine against the sharp edges of my teeth as his tongue thrust inside. He tasted like the sweet lemon icing from the taralli al limone pastries the food vendors sold along the square.
But that was the only sweet thing about him.
His kiss was brutal, possessive, and entirely too arousing.
I didn’t even know this man.
There was something taboo and wrong about giving in to his embrace like this.
And yet… it was very Carnevale.
As they said, when in Rome. Or, in this case, Sicily.
My lungs burned as he stole every breath of oxygen from my body. His hands reached up to grasp my head, strong fingers weaving into my hair, gently twisting, causing just a slight sting of pain, which added even more of a frisson of awareness to his every touch.
He broke free, but only to yank his mask off and toss it aside. “Fuck this thing.”
My eyes widened as his head lowered again. “No. Stop! I don’t know who you—”
His mouth claimed mine again. His tongue swirling around mine, he moved his hand to snatch at the heavy fabric of my skirt just over my hip.
Cool night air teased my upper thigh where he pulled my skirt high.
My hand covered his fist in an attempt to pry his fingers loose. I had let it go too far.
He growled against my mouth as his teeth sank into my lower lip. “Stop trying to play the virgin with me. We both know it’s not true.”
Ice water replaced the rising heat in my veins.
He didn’t want me.
He wanted my sister, Antonia.
Of course. Who would want the shy book nerd who hid from the world by devoting herself to her cello playing when they could have a vivacious, fun-loving party girl?
Anger gave me strength. This time I succeeded in jerking my head to the side, ending our kiss.
I reared my arm back and slapped him across the face so hard my palm stung.
His eyes narrowed as he gripped my upper arms. “What the hell was that for?”
My lips thinned. “Listen, I don’t know who you are, but—”
He cut me off, scowling down at me, his towering frame once more pressing me against the ancient wall. “What the fuck do you mean you don’t know who I am? Have you spread your legs for so many men you don’t even recognize your own fiancé?”
Sciatiri e matri!
Matteo Cavalieri had finally arrived in Palermo to claim my sister.
