Marriage Instead of Death

Chapter 12

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"I am not scared of thunder," I assert firmly, trying to maintain my composure.

Salvatore's smile widens, mischief dancing in his eyes as he counters, "No, I said that I'm afraid of the lightning, so I came here."

"Just for today, okay?" he adds, clutching the pillow to his chest, his expression softening.

As a flash of lightning illuminates the room, casting shadows across his face, I can't help but comment, "Did you know your face is even scarier?"

"Really?" he responds, feigning innocence.

"Fine, let me hold your hand then," he offers, extending his hand towards me.

"You're so thick-skinned," I retort, though a hint of amusement lingers in my voice.

I glance out the window, watching the rain cascade down in torrents. "It keeps raining?" I muse aloud.

"Let's see, if it doesn't rain, is there anywhere you would like to go?" Salvatore asks softly, his tone gentle and inviting.

I smile, feeling content in the cozy embrace of our villa. "No, it's okay to stay here all day. I like it here," I respond, closing my eyes to savor the moment.

Turning towards him, I find him looking at me with a hint of sadness in his eyes. "Even so, I'm a bit hurt when you said you're most satisfied with the villa in this marriage," he confesses, his voice heavy with emotion.

A soft laugh escapes my lips at his words, though it's tinged with affection. "Hahaha," I chuckle, attempting to lighten the mood.

"Wouldn't it be a pity for you to visit Bali and stay at home all day?" Salvatore's voice breaks through my thoughts, and I sense his desire to spend time together.

I can't help but smile at his suggestion. "Let's see. Um, now I'm too tired to think about where to go," I reply, still smiling with my eyes closed, enjoying the tranquility of the moment.

As he shifts to face me, I slowly open my eyes, meeting his gaze. "When it stops raining, I'll take you to the place I told you about before," he promises.

But the rain continues to pour outside, and his promise remains unfulfilled.

"Did you tell me about that place?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"It's Bruno, a gift I received when I was 14 at a nearby farm. He's my oldest friend, so I really want you to meet him. That's who my wife is," Salvatore explains with a soft smile, his eyes closing in fond remembrance.

I look at him, my mouth slightly agape, then shift my gaze to the ceiling, feeling a mix of emotions swirling within me.

"Your wi...fe," I repeat his words in disbelief, struggling to comprehend the weight of such a statement.

It feels shameless yet strangely wonderful to hear him say such embarrassing but endearing things. In my mind, I conjure a vivid image of Salvatore, his cheeks flushed, his eyes filled with desire, his breaths heavy with arousal, and his hair tousled and damp from the rain, adding to his disheveled yet enticing appearance.

But despite the intensity of his feelings, I remind myself of the reality of our situation. This is just a political marriage, a strategic alliance forged for mutual benefit. We will go our separate ways if there is no longer any advantage to be gained.

Yet, despite the practicalities of our arrangement, Salvatore still refers to me as "his wife," a title that carries weight and significance beyond the confines of our contract