Rosalia's POV
He's so close to me, I can't even breathe. He asked what I'm doing here, why I'm nervous, and I can't seem to form words because I'm suddenly captivated by how his lips are inches away from mine.
"I don't like repeating myself," he growls low, stepping closer—now our bodies pressed together.
"I… I was looking for something," I croak out, my voice breaking. My eyes involuntarily move to his lips, then back to his eyes.
The air between us feels heavy with tension—you could slice through it with a knife , and suddenly all I can think about is how his lips would feel against me if he kissed me .
His hand hesitates for a bit before he finally reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. His knuckles graze my skin, and I suck in a breath. I'm suddenly wet as hell, and I clench my thighs.
"What were you looking for, Raven?" he asks, his eyes roaming my face.
"Uhm… well… my red lipstick," my voice comes out small. The lie is stupid.
"Hm…" he simply hums.
"Let me see it," he says, looking down at my hoodie pocket , and time stops. My heart thunders in my chest, sweat pooling on my face.
I grip the box tighter , praying he doesn't actually look inside my pocket.
"W… why?" I ask, stuttering a little. He raises one eyebrow at me, and a shadow of a smirk forms on his lips before it disappears.
"I want to put it on you," he shrugs, looking at my lips, then back at my eyes.
God, if I die today, at least I got to celebrate my twentieth birthday.
I inwardly pray.
He reaches down slowly toward my hoodie pocket, and I shiver in literal fear—because there's no lipstick in my pocket.
His palm wraps around my wrist, about to pull out my hand—
The door to the room suddenly bursts open, and we both slightly jump. He steps back, and I breathe out.
Maria stands at the door holding a laundry basket.
"Oh… I'm so sorry, I didn't know anyone was in here," she stutters, her head down, practically shaking under Alessio's glare.
I quickly grab a red lipstick from the open drawer, slipping it into my pocket.
I step forward because Alessio looks pissed that Maria interrupted whatever was going on—and Maria looks like she's about to piss her pants.
"Uh… it's okay, we were just leaving anyway," I say, grabbing Alessio's hand. He looks down at our hands ,I'm a hundred percent sure he's going to pull away, but he doesn't. Instead, he holds my hand tighter.
"Learn how to fucking knock!" he snaps at her, and that makes Maria flinch. I frown slightly at the sight.
"My apologies, sir," she says, stepping aside as Alessio walks us out down the hallway.
"That wasn't necessary…" I say, trying to catch up with him as he drags me along.
He stops and looks back at me, taking his hand away from mine. I instantly miss the warmth.
"What?" he asks, stepping closer to me. God, he's so freaking intimidating. But I don't step back—I cross my arms over my chest.
"You snapping at her like that," I shrug.
"It's my fucking house. I think I can do what I want!" he snaps at me, and I scoff, rolling my eyes as I brush past him, heading downstairs.
I hear him behind me—just as I reach the last step, he grips my arm so tight I'm sure it'll leave a mark before slamming me against the wall. Not hurting me—just caging me in. I gasp, looking up at him, wondering what the fuck his problem is.
"You do not walk away from me. You do not roll your eyes at me, Raven," he warns, pointing at me, his eyes blown wide with anger, his chest heaving.
I like how I get under his nerves.
"Oh, I'm sorry, your highness," I say mockingly.
"You do recall what happened the last time you walked away, right?" he asks—and the basement incident makes my smirk falter. I don't respond. I look away.
He grips my chin, forcing me to look at him.
"You respect me, my little wife. I don't want to hurt you—that doesn't mean I won't," his tone is harsh, angry. He lets go of my chin roughly before stepping back.
My lip quivers and my eyes water. I keep forgetting what type of man Alessio is. He's not nice, he's not sweet, he's bipolar—and he doesn't have a soft spot for anyone.
"Good," he smirks when he sees my shaking state. He grabs my hand and speed-walks toward the door. I follow without a word.
I make a mental note to get away from this man the second he looks away when we land in Spain.
True to his word, my bags were packed in the car—just a few suitcases. I wish I got to choose the clothes I carried with me, but then again, I don't exactly have a say in this house. In his world.
The ride to the airport is quiet. I play with the lipstick in my hand, twisting and re-twisting its cap. Alessio sits stiff beside me on the other end of the back seat. He's typing away on his laptop, and once in a while, his hand rests on my thigh and squeezes. I don't stop him—because some part of me likes that he touches me.
I want to ask the main reason we're going to Spain—or for how long because I'm not buying that hunny moon bullshit , but knowing this man, he'll either snap at me or not answer at all when I ask . So I stay quiet.
The car comes to a stop. The driver opens Alessio's door first, then mine. My mouth falls open when I take in what's in front of me.
A sleek black private jet stands there like something straight out of a movie. It's huge, the steps adorned with a black velvet carpet.
"Move," Alessio's voice snaps me out of my gawking as he shoves me forward. God, I hate him.
We make our way up the steps, and once inside, I'm equally surprised at how beautiful it is. The interior is white and gold—white leather seats, golden details on the armrests, the floor a shimmering shade of gold. It's basically screaming luxury.
I take my seat near the window, and to my surprise, Alessio sits next to me. I shift uncomfortably, tightening my seatbelt.
One of the cabin crew—a blonde woman in a short red dress—approaches, placing glasses of sizzling champagne in front of us. I want to decline because I usually don't take anything during flights, but I don't find it in me to do so.
I nod at her with a smile she barely returns before she scurries off, leaving just me and Alessio.
His arm rests on the armrest of my seat. My eyes are on my lap, still fiddling with the lipstick. Then the pilot announces takeoff, and panic jolts through me. I've always hated flights—something about them makes me nauseous.
The jet shakes, and I grip my seatbelt, eyes shut. My mind moves on autopilot—my hand moves, my palm resting on his hand, nails digging into his knuckles. He doesn't move, so I hold on until the chaos subsides.
Few moments later ,I open my eyes, breathing heavily, my heartbeat so loud I'm sure he can hear it. My eyes move down slowly, and I see my hand on top of his. I gasp, pulling away.
His knuckles are dented, red, and slightly bleeding from how deep my nails scratched him. Oh, shit.
My hands tremble as I look up at him. His eyes move from his hand to mine, his face void of any emotion—and I'm convinced he's going to kill me.