He smiles. His shirt is bright white, and the collar is open. I imagine burying my face in his golden chest.

“I’m glad to hear it, bella.”

I wish he wouldn’t call me that. I know he’s not saying I’m beautiful. That it’s an Italian pet name like ‘sweetheart.’ But the way it comes out in his accented voice sends butterflies fluttering through me.

Eli frowns, regal-looking lines appearing on his forehead. “How old are you?”

I gnaw my lower lip. Why is he being so polite? Last night he struck me and acted like he hated me. Is he trying to find out more information to hurt Mr. Parker? “I turned eighteen last month.”

“That’s very young to be engaged.”

“It, um, was an arrangement?”

Why am I saying it like it’s a question?

Eli takes my left hand and examines my engagement ring. His touch sends shivers up my arm. His skin is soft, but I can feel the strength in his fingers. He could hurt me if he wanted to. He has.

He pulls the ring from my finger and holds it up to the lamplight. “This diamond, bella. It’s very…” He gestures at me, demanding an answer.

“Big?” I suggest.

“Vulgar.”

“Oh.” The stone is four carats, so it wasn’t cheap, but it does kind of look like a crystal microwave. Eli tucks the ring into his breast pocket. My stomach drops, but I know better than to ask for it back. What is he going to do with it? The obvious answer is ‘sell it’ but he doesn’t seem like someone who needs money.

Eli smiles. His teeth are perfect. “Domenico tells me you speak Italian.”

“I… Yes.”

“Wonderful. It’s not every day you meet an American girl who speaks Italian. Sei mai stata in Italia?” Have you been to Italy?

I hesitate. Zia Teresa and I only spoke Italian when my mom was away and it’s easier to understand what people are saying than talk.

“No… Non songa mai stata in Italia,” I venture.

He nods. “Almost. Non sono mai stata.”

“Sorry,” I whisper. “My Zia Teresa emigrated in the ’60s and never learned modern Italian. She speaks dialect. So do I, I guess.”

“I see.” Eli shifts closer and I smell lavender cologne, fresh and achingly lovely. I wish I could have a shower.

“I have something for you, Miss Whitehall,” he says.

“A change of clothes?”

He laughs. “Depending on how you receive my proposal, yes. And I might rethink my offer of yesterday and let you come upstairs. Would you like to sleep in a nice four-poster bed in a room with windows?”

The thought of escaping the cage makes my heart lift. “What would you like to give me?”

He looks me up and down. “All kinds of things, bella.”

My cheeks burn. I’m always doing this, setting people up to make jokes at my expense. In middle school, Ryan Wingfield said, ‘If I told you that you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?’ and I said yes. Everyone died laughing at me.