HIS FORBIDDEN BRIDE

CHAPTER 2

I didn’t sleep.

The bed was too big. The room was too quiet. The red roses smelled like a funeral.

At 3:17 AM I gave up and padded to the window in bare feet. The dress was gone. I’d put on one of Luca’s shirts I found in the closet. Black. It came to my thighs. It smelled like him.

Down below, two guards patrolled the gates.

Up here, I was a prisoner in silk.

A knock at 6:00 AM sharp.

“Come in,” I said, though it wasn’t a question.

It wasn’t Luca.

It was a woman. Mid-40s. Blonde. Sharp suit. She looked like she filed taxes for fun and buried bodies on weekends.

“Signora Romano,” she said. “I’m Ms. DeLuca. House manager. Mr. Romano has requested you for breakfast at 7. In the east dining room.”

“Is that an invitation or an order?”

Her mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “In this house, Mrs. Romano, they are the same thing.”

She left a tray. Coffee. Black. Bread. No jam.

And a note on thick cardstock.

> *House Rules. Memorize them.*

> *- L*

No please. No signature. Just L.

I drank the coffee. It was perfect.

---

At 6:55 I was in the hall. The shirt was still on. I’d added leggings under it because I wasn’t stupid.

The east dining room was all glass and marble. Luca was already there.

He wasn’t in a suit. Black pants. Black t-shirt. Sleeves pushed up.

Tattoos on his forearms I hadn’t seen last night. And a scar on his collarbone.

He looked up when I entered. His eyes did that thing again. Slow. From my feet to my hair.

“You slept in my shirt,” he said. Not a question.

“You left it in my room.”

“I did.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit.”

I sat.

Breakfast was already there. Eggs. Fruit. More coffee.

He ate like a man who’d been taught not to waste time. I ate like a woman who’d been taught not to take up space.

For five minutes, only the sound of forks.

Then he set his down.

“House Rules,” he said.

Here we go.

He pulled out a single sheet of paper. Slid it across the table.

I picked it up.

*THE ROMANO HOUSE RULES*

*1. You do not leave the property without me or two of my men.*

*2. You do not speak to media. You do not post. You do not exist online.*

*3. You do not touch me unless I invite it.*

*4. You do not ask about my business. You do not go to the west wing.*

*5. You will attend all family functions. You will play the role of my wife.*

*6. You will be in bed by 11. You will be up by 7. My staff will handle the rest.*

*7. If you break a rule, there are consequences.*

At the bottom, in his handwriting: _Any questions?_

I looked up. “Consequences?”

Luca leaned back. “What do you think, Lila?”

“I think you like control.”

“I do,” he said, easy. “I like it very much. Especially when people try to take it from me.”

My heart kicked. “And if I break rule 3?”

His eyes darkened. “Then I decide what the consequence is.”

The air went thick.

I folded the paper. Set it down. “Can I ask why rule 3 exists?”

“Because,” he said, voice low, “if you touch me, I won’t stop. And we agreed this was a business arrangement.”

_We didn’t agree to anything,_ I thought. _You bought me._

But I didn’t say it.

Instead I took a sip of coffee. “Fine. Understood.”

“Good girl,” he murmured.

The words hit lower than they should have.

He stood. “I have meetings. Ms. DeLuca will show you the house. Stay out of the west wing.”

He left. No goodbye.

---

The house tour took 2 hours.

Gym. Pool. Library with no books anyone had read. Kitchen bigger than my old apartment.

And the west wing. Locked. Two guards outside.

“Mr. Romano’s office,” Ms. DeLuca said. “Off limits.”

“Noted,” I said.

By 11, I was bored. By 1, I was angry.

By 3, I was done.

I found Luca in the library. On the phone. In Italian. Fast. Cold.

He glanced up when I came in. Held up a finger. _Wait._

I didn’t.

I walked to the shelves. Ran my finger along spines. Stopped at a book. Pulled it out.

_The Art of War._

“Interesting choice,” I said, loud enough to interrupt him.

He ended the call. “I told you to wait.”

“I did. For 10 seconds.” I turned a page. “You read this?”

“Do you want to die today, Lila?”

The question should’ve scared me. It didn’t.

Maybe because his voice wasn’t angry. It was curious.

I closed the book. Set it back. “No. I want to go for a walk.”

“The gardens are fine.”

“The gardens are caged.”

Luca stood. He was taller than I remembered. “Rule 1.”

“I’m not leaving the property.”

“You’re testing me.”

“I’m bored,” I corrected. “There’s a difference.”

He crossed the room in two strides. Stopped a foot from me.

Close enough that I had to tilt my head up.

“You want to test me?” he asked quietly. “Be careful what you ask for.”

My pulse was in my throat. “Are you going to punish me?”

“If you need punishing, yes.”

I swallowed. “Then punish me.”

Silence.

The kind that presses on your chest.

Luca’s jaw ticked. His eyes dropped to my mouth. Back to my eyes.

Then he stepped back. Like he’d burned himself.

“Gardens,” he said, voice rough. “30 minutes. Two guards. Don’t talk to them.”

I smiled. Small. “Yes, Mr. Romano.”

He hated that. I could tell.

---

The gardens were beautiful and pointless. Roses. Fountains. Walls 10 feet high.

I walked. The guards followed 10 feet behind.

At 3:28, my phone buzzed. Unknown number.

> _Stop testing me.

> -L_

I typed back. I shouldn’t have. But I did.

> _Make me._

> _-Lila_

Three dots. Then nothing.

When I got back, Ms. DeLuca was waiting. “Dinner is at 8. Mr. Romano requests you wear the black dress. From the closet.”

Of course he did.

At 7:55 I was at the top of the stairs. The black dress. Backless. Higher slit than the red one.

I hated that I liked how it felt.

Luca was at the bottom. Waiting.

He was in a suit again. But his tie was loose. His hair was messy like he’d run his hands through it.

He looked at me. And for half a second, his mask slipped.

Want. Anger. Something raw.

“Rule 3,” he said.

“I know,” I said, coming down the stairs slowly. “Don’t touch you unless invited.”

“Good.”

We ate in silence again. But this time it was different.

This time he watched me. Every bite. Every sip of wine.

At 9, he set his glass down. “Come with me.”

He led me out of the dining room. Down a hall. To a door I hadn’t seen.

His office.

The west wing.

He opened it. Gestured inside.

I stepped in. It was dark. Smelled like leather and him.

He shut the door. Locked it.

My stomach dropped. “This is the west wing.”

“I know.”

“You said I couldn’t come here.”

“I’m inviting you,” he said simply.

He walked to his desk. Poured two glasses of whiskey. Handed me one.

“Drink.”

I did. It burned.

Luca leaned against the desk. Arms crossed. “You broke rule 1 today. You went to the library without permission.”

“I didn’t know I needed permission to breathe.”

“You need permission for everything in my house.”

“And if I don’t ask?”

“Then I enforce rule 7.”

I set my glass down. “What’s the consequence, Luca?”

He watched me. For a long time.

Then he moved.

Not fast. Not cruel.

He took my hand. His was warm. Calloused.

And he pulled me to stand between his legs. I was close enough that my knees hit the chair.

“Consequence,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “is that I keep you here. With me. Until I decide you’ve learned.”

My breath caught. “And how long is that?”

“As long as it takes.”

His thumb brushed over my knuckles. Over the wedding ring.

“Rule 3 says I can’t touch you,” I said. My voice was shaking. I hated it.

“Rule 3,” he said, “says you can’t touch me unless I invite it.”

He lifted my hand. Brought it to his chest. Right over his heart.

It was beating fast.

“This,” he said, pressing my palm flat against him, “is an invitation.”

The room tilted.

My other hand came up on its own. To his jaw. I didn’t think. I just did.

Luca’s eyes flared. But he didn’t move. Didn’t kiss me. Didn’t push me away.

“Bad girl,” he murmured. “Breaking the rules.”

“I thought you liked control,” I whispered back.

“I do.” His hand came up. Caught my wrist. Held it there. “Which is why I’m not kissing you right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I start, I won’t stop. And you’re not ready for that.”

The arrogance. The truth.

I laughed. Soft. Shaky. “You don’t get to decide what I’m ready for.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I get to decide when.”

He let go of my wrist. Stepped back.

The loss of his heat made me cold.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “you will follow the rules.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then tomorrow night, I’ll be in your room. And we’ll discuss consequences properly.”

A threat. A promise.

He walked to the door. Unlocked it. Held it open.

“Goodnight, Mrs. Romano.”

I walked past him. His cologne followed me.

At my door, I turned. “Luca?”

“Hm?”

“Rule 7 is very vague.”

He smiled. Finally. Small. Dangerous.

“I know.”

He closed the door.

I leaned against mine. Hands shaking.

The Devil didn’t want a wife.

He wanted a war.

And I just fired the first shot.