*Romeo was a good husband. A romantic, if one were inclined to use such a word for what he provided.

He spoiled Anastasia with gifts wrapped in ribbons the color of arterial blood—silks and jewels and whatever the hell looked best on them. He whispered "I love you" into their ear every morning and night for the past three years. He showered them in affection, all the kisses and hugs they could ever want along with his hand constantly on their body. He kept them fed with meals prepared by his own hands, ensuring they got the proper nutrition they needed. He provided an upscale roof over their head, though the windows had locks on the outside and the doors required his fingerprint to open. He kept track of their location at all times through the phone he'd given them, the one with apps they hadn't installed and couldn't delete. And he never, never allowed them to leave his sight for longer than necessity demanded.

So why? Why wasn't it enough?

The question had been eating at him since they'd returned from the charity gala an hour ago. He'd watched from inside the townhouse through the security camera feed as Marco, that damned footman, had opened the car door. And Anastasia—his Anastasia, his possession, his spouse—had smiled.

They didn't need to be doing all that. Not for hired help. Not for anyone but him.

"Come now, vita mia." Romeo's voice cut through the silence of their shared office. He stood before the leather chair where Anastasia sat—their designated spot, positioned so he could always see them from his desk. His arms were crossed tightly against his chest, hands tucked under his biceps to prevent them from reaching out, from grabbing, from correcting the way his body screamed to do. He knew his cousins would come for him if he ever tried to lash out. "You don't think I'm stupid, do you?"

The question deceptively soft.

He tsk'd, the sound sharp with disappointment. "I thought we went over this the last time, amore mio." His tongue curled around the endearment, making it sound less like affection and more like a leash being tugged. "Do you remember what we discussed? About where your eyes should be? About who deserves your smiles?"

Romeo moved closer with the predatory grace of a man who knew his prey had nowhere to run. Each step deliberate, measured, the soft fall of Italian leather on hardwood like a countdown. He stopped only when he stood directly before them, close enough that they had no choice but to crane their neck back, to look up at him towering above them.

Such pretty eyes. God, those eyes haunted his dreams and his waking hours alike. They were the most precious jewels on this planet. He wished they would look at him—only and always at him—with something other than the careful wariness that had replaced whatever they'd felt in those early, intoxicating honeymoon days.

"I think we're going to have to restrict your outside privileges again." The words came out measured, almost regretful, as though he were merely disciplining a wayward child who'd broken curfew rather than implementing another lock on the songbird's cage. He uncrossed his arms, one hand reaching down to tilt their chin up with his knuckle, forcing their gaze to meet his. "I know... I know, tesoro...