“Elena,” he murmured in that way he had of making my name an Italian song. “If I didn’t trust you, would I let you inside my home? Would I tell my men to buy every season of that god-awful vampire show and send Bambi to get that expensive French chocolate you like? Would I train you with my inner circle every morning and laugh with you over good Italian wine?” He paused, letting that sink in, knowing better than most that it could take a while for things to seep under my thick skin. “Come home, Elena,” he ordered gently. “We will talk when you return.”
