MAGDALENA
Damien's home was far different than what I expected. Nestled deep in Palermo and away from prying eyes, his home was a hidden Arab-Norman mansion hidden by lush vegetation and tropical palm trees in their dozens.
The evening was still warm and I was not even close to being sober from all the alcohol I'd drunk, because, after the dance, I'd sat with my cousins and we'd engaged in a fun drinking game, with my husband sulking in the background. He seemed to be done with the wedding the second he slid that ring on my finger.
Bright garden floodlights were on and focused on the house which was made entirely of terracotta coloured stone on the exterior.
It looked like something right out of a painting. A historical painting with palm trees surrounding it.
Damien and I walked up the paved path after he'd handed his keys to a tall, dark-haired man, who kept his head down.
We hadn't spoken at all since leaving my father's house, so as we walked up the concrete stairs, I felt my stomach twist with nerves. I didn't know what to expect now that we were finally alone. Considering that I had snapped at him earlier too, the air between us wasn't exactly warm. It was frigid.
I waited patiently behind him as he opened the wide, dark wood-stained door, before stepping aside to let me in first. Now he wanted to be a gentleman?
I stepped into the foyer of the house, my shoes tapping against the beautiful Majolica tiles that covered the floor with their various patterns and colours. Ahead of me was a grand stone staircase and above us, a brightly lit five-tier chandelier that glittered with a million little globes.
The vaulted ceilings had paintings on them, but it wasn't bright enough for me to make out what it was exactly.
It was beyond beautiful. Maybe I could explore tomorrow. My new home. I ran my hand along the cool stone bannister at the bottom of the stairs.
Immediately, I stilled when I realized Damien's footsteps had stopped. Turning around, I found him watching me. His dark eyebrows knitted together.
"Do you want to say something?" I blurted out because the silence was killing me.
He took his jacket off and walked up the stairs, leaving me behind. "The room is up here."
"We're sleeping in the same room?" I followed him, trying to keep up with his fast footsteps.
I almost fell forward as we reached the top, but it's not like he noticed, because he just continued walking. Or maybe he did notice and just didn't care. And he didn't bother answering my question either.
There were two different hallways on either side of us, but he moved to the left, so I followed him that way too until we reached the end of the hall and he pushed the dark wooden door open.
"Are we sleeping in the same room?" My voice was laced with irritation.
He turned around, and when he did, he cut his gaze to me as he threw his jacket on the floor and began unbuttoning his shirt.
"Why not?" His jaw was tight. "You're my wife."
"I thought it would inconvenience you." I tried not to stare as he pulled his shirt off.
For the first time in my life, I was in another man's home, another man's room and he was getting undressed before me.
He discarded the shirt on the floor, next to the jacket and my gaze whispered across his broad shoulders. Damien had that smooth, dark olive Mediterranean skin. The words Omertà were tattooed across his chest.
And there was a smaller passage of words tattooed along the left side of his ribcage.
His abdomen was sculpted with curves and dips that I almost felt like reaching out and touching. All I ever knew about sex and the male anatomy was from books.
I felt his eyes on me, so I swallowed hard and glanced down at my knotted fingers in front of me.
"You live here. You do what you want.
You can go wherever you want in this house, except for my office. You don't have to worry about cooking or anything else," he said, walking across the room to a wall that had two glass doors built into it.
Damien lightly tapped the panel on the wall and the doors slid open to reveal a walk-in closet with all his clothes in it. And next to his shelves were all my clothes already neatly packed.
I watched as he pulled off his pants too before he placed a gun that I hadn't noticed before on a black ottoman in the middle of the room. His body was beautiful. Smooth, dark skin, a lean body and long legs. And then he got dressed again in a pair of dark jeans and a black t-shirt.
"Are you going somewhere?" I asked, watching as he slipped his gun behind him in the waistband of his jeans once again.
"Yes. I have work to do." He didn't even look at me as he strode out of the closet and shuffled past me.
"Damien." He was pulling on black combat boots now.
"What the hell are you doing?" I raised my voice because my patience was wearing off. "What is my purpose here? To be your slave, your ornament?"
Immediately, I regretted my words when he shot a sharp glare at me.
"One," he said, walking up to me and towering over me with his tall frame. "Don't ever talk to me like again. Two, your purpose will be whatever I want it to be. It'll be better if you shut up and stop asking me unnecessary things," he said.
Tears burned the back of my eyes. How dare he speak to me like that? Reaching up, I aimed to slap him, but he caught me in a split second and curled his fingers tightly around my wrist. "Don't try that again."
"You're hurting me," I whispered, as I tried to twist my wrist free from his hold.
Damien stepped closer to me, his voice low and his eyes fixed on mine. "Try it again and I will hurt you worse. I'm not playing games, so it's time you stop."
Dropping my hand, I watched as Damien left the room before I dropped to the floor and buried my face in my palms. Was I delusional or was he just being cold for no reason? Was this how it would always be?
I couldn't hold back the tears anymore. My shoulders shook as I rubbed my wrist. This was like a bad dream. But even bad dreams come to end and then there's hope that everything would be better. He's like a bad dream that won't ever come to end and I don't even know what I did to deserve it.