Page 84 of Broken Crown

As if he hadn't whispered the opera's most manipulative lines in my ear while he took what he wanted.

His thumb traced lazy circles on my skin, the touch deceptively gentle.

"Almost there, dolcezza," he said, his voice warm honey in the darkness, nothing like the razor-edged commands he'd issued an hour ago.

His thumb pressed harder against my thigh—had he felt me tense? Our reflections ghosted across the dark glass.

A woman who looked composed.

A man who looked patient.

Both lies.

The car slowed as we turned down a narrow lane bordered by cypress trees standing like sentinels against the night sky. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as we pulled up to a small villa, its honey-colored stone glowing amber in the outdoor lighting.

"What is this place?"

Sebastian's smile looked wolfish in the dim light. "Somewhere private. Just for us."

His hand squeezed my thigh once then he exited the car and came around to my door.

Ever the gentleman—after being anything but.

The air outside cooled my heated skin, carrying the scent of rosemary and distant smoke.

Sebastian's hand found the small of my back, his touch proprietary as he guided me toward the arched wooden door.

"You own this too?"

"Of course." His reply sounded casual, as if it were obvious that he would possess everything around us.

The door swung open to reveal warm light spilling across terra-cotta floors.

The villa was smaller than I expected—intimate rather than imposing.

A fire crackled in a stone hearth, casting dancing shadows across the rustic wooden beams overhead. The space was achingly beautiful in its simplicity, with creamy plaster walls and comfortable-looking furniture draped in soft throws.

No staff greeted us, but evidence of their presence was everywhere.

Candles graced every surface, their flames mirrored in gleaming wineglasses set on a low table next to the fire.

Beside them, an elaborate spread of food steamed gently—a pot of risotto ai funghi porcini releasing earthy steam, delicate arancini balls golden and crisped, perfectly grilled branzino with lemon and herbs, and a dish of osso buco that filled the room with its rich aroma.

My stomach cramped—when had I last eaten? Before the opera. Before he'd made me forget everything but his touch. The smell of the osso buco was almost painful.

"You planned all this," I said, not a question but an accusation.

Sebastian's hands settled on my shoulders, turning me to face him.

Gone was the cruel intensity from the opera. In its place was something almost tender as he smoothed his hand over my hair.

"I wanted to give you a perfect night," he said. He looked so sincere I almost believed him. "Are you hungry?"

"I need to bathe first."

His eyes darkened, memories of what we'd done clearly playing behind them. "Of course. Let me show you."

A dark walnut armoire sat just inside the front room. Sebastian hung our coats inside, then led me down a short hallway to a bathroom that was from another era. A deep copper tub dominated the space, set against a backdrop of hand-painted tiles in shades of blue and gold.