Rome's POV

Blood. So much blood.

"Mommy!" The thirteen-year-old boy's scream echoed through the marble hallway as the masked figure pointed the gun at his mother. Her diamond necklace scattered across the floor.

"Rome, run!" she gasped, her beautiful face twisted in terror. "Don't let them—"

The gunshot silenced her forever.

I jerked awake in my bed, cold sweat dripping down my chest. Fifteen years later, and the nightmares still came. Every birthday. Every anniversary. Every time I closed my eyes.

My mother's killer was still out there.

**********

The black car pulled into our circular driveway at exactly three o'clock. I watched from my office window as the driver got out and opened the rear door.

She was smaller than I'd expected. Fragile-looking, with long dark hair and pale skin. Her clothes were worn, clearly secondhand, and she clutched a battered suitcase like it contained everything she owned.

Which it probably did.

Smith was already on the front steps, playing the charming host. I watched him take her suitcase, saw the way his smile faltered when he noticed what must have been bruises on her face.

My jaw tightened. Alexander Nightwood was a pig, but he was also deeply in debt to my family. This girl—Lola—was just another transaction.

I wheeled myself out of my office and toward the front entrance, arriving just as Smith was warning her about me.

"Smith, what are you doing?"

My brother turned, and I saw the flash of concern in his eyes. He'd always been too soft, too kind for the world we lived in.

"Brother," Smith said easily, but I saw the tension in his shoulders. "I was just welcoming Lola."

"How thoughtful." My gaze fixed on her, and I felt a strange flicker of... something. She was beautiful, in a fragile, damaged way. But there was something else in her eyes. A spark of defiance that intrigued me. "Leave us."

Smith hesitated. "Rome, maybe I should..."

"Leave. Us." The words came out sharper than I had intended.

Smith squeezed her shoulder gently and whispered something before disappearing into the house.

Now I was alone with my new wife.

I rolled my wheelchair closer, studying her. She was trying not to show fear, but I could see the way her hands trembled, the way she held herself like she was ready to run.

"So," I said, circling her slowly. "You're the charity case they stuck me with."

Her cheeks burned red, but she didn't look away.

"Did I give you permission to speak?"

Her mouth snapped shut, her hands trembling at her sides.

"That's better."

I completed my circle, stopping directly in front of her. "Let me make something very clear, Lola. You are here because your family owes mine a debt. Nothing more. You are not my wife in any real sense only on paper. You are property, purchased and paid for."

I watched tears gather in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Interesting.

"You will clean my house. You will warm my bed when I require it. You will smile and play the part of a devoted wife when we have guests. And in return, I will provide you with food, shelter, and clothing appropriate to your status."

My smile felt cold even to me. "Consider yourself lucky. The alternative was much worse."

"What alternative?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

My hand shot out, gripping her chin with enough force to make her gasp. I yanked her down until our faces were inches apart, my fingers digging into her cheeks.

"The alternative," I said softly, "was letting your uncle sell you to men far less civilized than I am."

Her skin was soft under my fingers. Too soft. I tightened my grip until she winced.

"But don't mistake my mercy for weakness, little mouse. Cross me, disobey me, or try to run, and I will make you wish you had never been born."

I released her suddenly, and she stumbled backward, her hand flying to her jaw.

"Welcome to your new home, Mrs. Ryder." The title felt strange on my tongue. "I do hope you'll be very, very happy here."