Lair of the Lion

continue to be a companion to her.
    Nicolai hesitated, his first moment of indecision. He raked a hand through his hair, his body jerking as he lifted his arm. "You must meet the other women and begin to learn what is necessary to run the palazzo. I do not want a wife in name only. I expect you to take an active interest in your home and its people."
    "I helped run mio padre's holdings, so I certainly will have no problem learning about this one." It was ten times larger than anything she had ever seen, but Sarina had already befriended her, and Isabella was certain the woman would help. It seemed a daunting task, but Isabella liked challenges, and she had confidence in her own abilities. She lifted her chin as she touched the edge of his tunic. "I was hoping we could share some meals together." Very gently she lifted his shirt to reveal the claw marks where the lion had raked his skin. "Hold this." She caught his wrist and pressed his palm against his shirt to keep it in place and away from the lacerations.

    Nicolai watched her intently, the pupils of his eyes so pale they were luminous in the darkness. Her fingers brushed his skin gently, soothingly, lingering just a bit too long. His entire body clenched and tightened and ached with need. His breath caught in his throat, and his blood heated to a molten pool. He tore his gaze from her face, from her tender expression. The way she looked at him was almost too much to bear. His teeth snapped together in frustration, and a low growl escaped. "I should have insisted on sending you away."
    Her gaze jumped to his face. "Why?" The question was stark. Innocent. Far too trusting.
    It drove him mad. "Because I want to lay you down on the bed, the floor, anywhere at all, and make you my own." The words escaped before he could stop them, before he could take them back. He didn't know if he wanted to shock her or frighten her or warn her.
    "Oh." The single word slipped out softly.
    She didn't sound shocked or frightened. She sounded pleased. He saw the smile Isabella tried to hide.
    She kept her gaze glued to the lacerations on his ribs, which matched those on the left side of his face. "How did you get these marks?"
    Nicolai hesitated again, then sighed softly as he relaxed. "I was tussling with one of the lions, and I was a little slow." She was turning him inside out, and he wasn't prepared for the intensity of his emotions. Where before he had wanted her to know everything, now he merely wanted her to want him more than life.
    He was lying. Isabella knew it. She glanced up at his set face. It was the first time he had told her an outright lie. His lashes were long and dark and feathery, completely at odds with his gleaming eyes, burning with such fierce intensity. She was gentle as she smeared the salve along the lacerations. "Signor DeMarco, I do not mind silence, but I object to untruths. I would ask that you would consider my request that if we're to be wed—"
    "We are to be wed, Isabella." It was a command, uttered with complete authority.
    "If that is so, signore, then I would ask that you refrain from speaking if you are inclined to tell me a falsehood. I want you to promise me that you will at least give consideration to my request."
    "I will tell you this much truth, Isabella," he said softly. The air around them stilled, gathering powerful charge. Danger vibrated between them. "The one you should fear the most is standing before you. That is truth, the absolute truth. Heed my warning, cara. Never trust me, not for a single moment, if you value your life."
    Isabella was afraid to move. Afraid to speak. He believed every word he had uttered to her. There was menace in his voice. And sorrow. And regret. But more than those things, there was the ring of truth.

Chapter Seven
    They were all watching her. Isabella tried not to pay attention at first, but as Sarina showed her around the palazzo, she became more aware of the covert looks, the whispers following her from room to room. The atmosphere in the DeMarco holding was different from that of any she had been in, and she decided it was the people who made the difference. They were servants for the most part, polishing each room until it gleamed, but they did so as if they owned the palazzo,
    Their loyalty to the don ran deep and seemed ingrained in every man, woman, and child she saw. They watched her intently. Eagerly. Each of them made it a point to say something encouraging to her, something complimentary about