Bad Little Bride

My heart pumps wildly in my chest, beads of sweat rolling down my skin, and every muscle in my body screams in resentment, but I ignore its rebellion against me, having every intention of running through every routine in my mind at least one more time in attempt to drown out my endless thoughts.

Thirty more seconds and then get back up, girl.

“If you’re done sighing to yourself, you may stand.”

I fly up from where I’m laid out on the floor, head snapping toward the voice.

A woman is poised in the doorway, her gray hair pulled back into a sleek bun at the top of her head, reminding me of my very first ballet teacher. Her facial expressions are as stern as that vile woman’s was, too. Annoyance flickers across her elegant face and she clasps her hands before her. “Stand. Please.”

I’m so thrown off by this little visit, I don’t even argue.

I stand, stretching my neck and laying my hands gently at my sides. Chin high, shoulders straight, face soft so as not to draw a single smile or laugh line to it.

The woman—who clearly has no intention of introducing herself—walks closer, her ivory gown dragging slightly as she does. Hers is the first face I’ve seen since Enzo dropped me in this room with no phone, no television, and worst of all…no music. I’ve been left to nothing but my thoughts for seven long days. Even when the staff would bring meals to my room throughout the day, they would simply push open the entry door and roll a cart inside. I didn’t see so much as a hand.

So yes, this is unexpected, but I guess he couldn’t leave me to rot in here alone forever.

Or he could, I guess.

There are no laws that apply to men like Enzo Fikile.

The woman continues closer as she makes small sounds of appraisal—a “hm” here and “ah” there—but even when she places herself directly before me, I don’t bring my eyes to hers. I know this game.

“At least you’re well-trained,” she mutters, reaching out and pushing my lips down to check my teeth. “And well-maintained. I assume you’re bare?”

At that, my attention does snap to her. “Excuse me?”

“The only part of you Mr. Fikile is interested in. Is it bare?”

Wow.

Wow.

“I guess he’ll find out if we ever say I do, won’t he?” I stare her down, her words cutting deeper than they should. “If your boss thinks kidnapping me was a good way to get my dad to come busting down the doors with my sister in tow, ready to make the swap he was promised, do me a favor? Tell him not to hold his breath. If rescuing me means putting Rocklin at risk…you’ve gained yourself a new, lifelong prison mate.”

Unless Rocklin is here and I’m already in prison for attempting to break the contract.

Holy shit, what if that’s exactly what’s happening?

The woman’s eyes show her age as they narrow on me, but she simply strides past to the private bathroom connected to my room, or maybe I should call it my temporary jail cell. Not sure which it is just yet.

She steps up to the giant, blue-tinted glass doors and pulls them open, running the water like I’m a child who needs help. “Leave the water at the temperature I set. Any warmer and your pores will open and any colder and they will clog. You will take ice baths once a week to help prevent wrinkles, and use of the sauna will be mandated if your clothes grow too tight.” Her attention flicks over me in my nightgown with reproach and she pinches her lips together. “Your driver will arrive promptly two hours from now, but your meal will be served at the breakfast table this morning in one, so move it along, Miss Revenaw. Your days of sleeping the hours away are gone.”

“Driver?” Something swirls in my stomach and I’m not sure if it’s anticipation or dread.

She blinks, walking past me. “Your wardrobe will be on your bed once you are done. If you’re so much of a princess that you need help with your hair, call for me.”

I don’t need help with my hair, but her words irritate me, so I stomp to the side until I can see her in the room. “I don’t have a phone!”

The woman ignores me, moving toward the closet that’s stocked with basic, thoughtless outfits, so I do the only thing I can in the moment. I take a fucking shower.

Despite what I expected, the water temperature is quite nice, but I don’t stand beneath it for long, not with the threat of time against me. Father always stressed the importance of appearance, so if I’m going to live up to the expectation of an heir, I need every minute I can get, especially when the products stocked in my room are not ones I’d typically choose.

I’ve just swiped my lipstick across my lower lip when the soft click of the bedroom door opening garners my attention—I was waiting for it this time.

Pushing my long blonde hair over my shoulder, I step into the room to find the same woman standing there. She sweeps her hand out, only to jump in front of me when my feet reach her.

Her glare points toward the floor. “You’re not wearing the heels I set out.”

“No.” I keep my eyes pointed forward. “I’m not.”

She scoffs but says not another word, silently leading me down the hall.

This is a different part of the mansion than the one I was in before. Before, there were at least tapestries above the windows and images hanging on the walls. They were bland, matchy-matchy things to make it look as if the house was put together, likely things that were already here when he bought this property, and he didn’t care enough to change anything.

This area is no different in the sense that it’s not a home, but it’s even emptier than the wing I was tucked away in last time. There’s no furniture in the giant room we pass along the way to the dining room, and nothing decorates the walls in this never-ending hall.

Truly, the only sign of life is the slight smudge of shoe prints that gleam against the shiny floor. Not the kind that come from grime, but from someone taking the first step over a freshly waxed marble.

It’s eerily silent for the home of a crime boss, nothing but the sound of the woman’s heels clinking against the floor and making sure to stay a step ahead of me. No guards, no other staff, nothing.

Finally, at the end of the walkway, we curve left, pausing in front of two giant mahogany doors.

At first, I wonder if she’s waiting for me to open them for her, but then they open on their own, and instantly, my head snaps up in search of a camera.

Sure enough, a little red light blinks in the corner. It isn’t hidden, just right there for all to see. Not that anyone is around to spot it. My sister has similar cameras set up in The Enterprise, the underground club she runs, but they’re concealed.

I guess Enzo wants you to know he’s watching.

Is he watching?

Suddenly the high-waisted, high-slit midi-skirt this woman set out feels too tight.

The unmistakable tang of freshly cut pineapple wafts over me then and I step forward, peering into what I can see of the dining space. Several staff members appear from around the corner, trays in hand. They’re single file, one after another, and just as quickly as they stepped out, they retreat, now empty-handed.

The woman lets out a long, annoyed breath beside me, so I wait two extra seconds out of spite, and then step into the space. The moment I do, my eyes instantly snap to the left, and I hate how my feet falter at the sight, but to be fair, it’s the last thing I expected to find.

Enzo sits at the head of the table, a tablet in his hand and a coffee mug in the other. He cut his hair.

How or why I notice that, I don’t know. I only got the smallest of looks at him the day he brought me back, but that day it was a little longer on the sides, as was his facial hair.

Today, his dark hair is shaved short at the sides, the top slightly slicked back and a little to the left, like he got out of the shower, ran a hand through it and it just stayed that way. His facial hair is no more than a light dusting of stubble, an intentional five-o’clock shadow. My attention falls to the thin white tank top he wears underneath the open button-up, or more to the necklace tucked into it. It’s a thin gold chain with something hanging in the circular center, but I can’t make out what it is, I just spot the small indent between the swell of his pecs. It must be significant.

Men don’t tend to wear jewelry that isn’t, and certainly not jewelry they tuck close to their heart.

“Sit.”

My eyes fly to his face as the terse demand leaves him, but he’s still tapping and scrolling away on his tablet, not offering to look up from his work.

Over his shoulder, I notice a man in all black standing with his back pressed against the wall, a small folder hanging from his hands. He stands there like a creepy-ass scene in some horror flick, focusing hard on the wall opposite of his position…a completely blank wall. Not even his eyes stray toward me.

No one ever looks my way here. Not during the three months earlier this year when I was here to “get to know” my future husband—who was away on business the entire time—and apparently, not now.

Slowly, I step to the right, moving for the seat at the farthest end of the table from where he sits, but a harsh screech of wood sliding against marble stops me. I look over as he tucks his leg back underneath the table, having kicked the chair beside him out and sending it crashing to the floor.

My heart pounds wildly, and I don’t know why, but I glance at the woman behind me for help.

Shockingly enough, she gives it in the form of a small nod, so I draw in a full breath, remember I’m a fucking Revenaw and was eating eggs with murderous men at our breakfast table since I was old enough to hold a fucking fork, and make my way across the room. Just as I begin to bend to pick up the toppled chair from the floor, Enzo shoots to his feet.

His brown eyes snap to mine, catching me in his snare and holding me captive for a long, tense moment.

They’re dark but not as dark as I had remembered them to be. There’s a hazel, honey-like hue within them, bleeding out and softening as it meets and is swallowed by the dark chocolate color, but any thoughts of him being soft or sweet is trickery of the best kind. He’s not.

The pits of hell smiled upon Enzo Fikile, giving him the gift of the gods with his long, black lashes and sharp jaw. He’s cut and carved into perfection and oh-so very tall.

A solid seven or more inches than me, and he uses it to his advantage, stepping close enough to force me to bare my neck in order to look up at him like he’s the king and I’m just a girl he’s gracing with his presence.

That’s exactly what he thinks.

The smallest crease forms at the edges of his eyes as he moves, silently demanding my gaze doesn’t abandon his as he bends, gripping the heavy, mahogany leg in his hand. He flips it upright, scooting it until the edge of the seat presses the outside of my knee.

I take the cue, turning slightly, and he pushes it in as I sit. My ass isn’t even firmly placed on the cushion before he’s seated again and looping his ankle around the leg of the chair to yank it closer to his. So close, there’s little arm room for me to reach for the glass of water he pours for me without my knuckles brushing along the sleeve of his shirt when he goes to grab a small pad of paper before him at the same time.

He flips it over, hiding the handwriting on the other side as he places it before me, leaving just enough space for the server to lower a plate.

I look up with a small smile, a thank-you on my tongue, but it dies when the server whips around and all but runs out of the room, three others entering as he exits.

A platter of fruit, one full of protein, and a third of nothing but carbs are lowered before us.

A steamy cappuccino is set before me, and I stare at it a moment, wondering if I should ask if I could have it prepared the way I like or if it will paint me as more of the spoiled brat he likely sees me as. Before I can decide, a small pouring cup is set beside me, a stainless-steel Whip Tech next.

I blink, my eyes moving to the server, but again, he’s already gone, having delivered exactly what I would have asked for.

I can feel the heat of Enzo’s gaze. He’s watching me, probably to see if I’ll complain, but I don’t want to look at him, so I take the whipped cream dispenser and cover the top of my espresso with it, deciding to only add a small drizzle of caramel.

The glass dish no sooner hits the table when Enzo picks it right back up, pouring the fresh, warm—homemade?—caramel over the top until it looks like it’s part of the whipped cream.

My gaze does snap up to meet his this time, and honestly, it’s so awkward and uncomfortable. Not to mention weird.

We’re technically, legally engaged, but we haven’t seen each other or spoken to one another in months, and even then, there were no conversations. We literally talked once outside of the day I approached him with my idea, if you don’t count the meetings with our lawyers to draft the contract, which I don’t. Last he heard, I changed my mind and pulled out of the deal. Then he showed up at the spa and dragged me back to his home, all to lock me in a new room for a week without a single word from him. Now here we are having breakfast together.

Like I said. Awkward.

Clearing my throat, I wrap my hands around the bubbled cappuccino cup, enjoying the way it warms my palms. “Thank you,” I say, going in for a small, sugary sip.

“Don’t thank me.” He begins to pile his plate with sausage and eggs, opting out of the fruit and waffle options. “If you want something, take it. Don’t wait for someone to give it to you.”

“Is that what you were hoping to do with my sister?”

“Is she here?” he quips easily.

My eyes narrow and he looks up, slowly chewing a piece of meat.

“Is she here?” he repeats.

“I don’t know…” I pop a blonde brow. “Is she?”

Enzo stares, blindly taking his knife in his hand. He brings it forward, probably wondering if I’ll flinch, but he wouldn’t just kill me right here, right now.

Would he?

“If I wanted your sister…” He stabs it into a triangle waffle and slams it down on my plate, and then he stabs a thicker, square one, doing the same thing. He keeps going until my plate is piled with more carbs than I could eat in a month before going back to eating his own food. “She would already be mine.”

“You’re quite confident for a man who couldn’t hold on to the fiancée he did have, aren’t you?”

His fork freezes halfway to his mouth, and his eyes slice to mine.

I don’t cower, staring right back, and his narrow the slightest bit before he tears them away, eating once again, only slower this time.

It was stupid to say. We both know if he wanted to come for me when I didn’t return, he could have successfully done so with little effort.

The fact of the matter is he simply…chose not to. The why remains to be seen.

Maybe he didn’t care to or maybe he was in no rush. I can’t pretend to guess anymore.

I take a few more small sips of my cappuccino, then using my knife as well, I slice into a piece of melon, bringing it to my lips straight out of the serving bowl. I let my teeth scrape across the metal and push away the plate in front of me, the one he took it upon himself to serve me.

Enzo pushes it right back, those eyes boring into mine. They’re darker now, irritated.

After my third piece of melon, he shakes his head, flipping over the small notebook in front of me.

“Read that.” He takes his cup in his hands.

Leaning forward slightly, I look at the chicken scratch of handwriting, starting with the top line. I get to the third word when I realize what it is and pause.

Is he for real right now?

Apparently, as he doesn’t bother meeting my gaze and his next demand comes quickly. “Out loud.”

Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I look to the paper once more. “I take this man to be my husband, promising to honor and obey him until the end of time.” The words are rushed and bland as they leave me, and I shake my head. “What is⁠—”

“I take this woman to be my wife, promising to honor and care for her until the end of time.”

I blink up at him, and it doesn’t escape me how he chooses to leave out the word “obey” in his version, but seriously? He wants to what, practice vows when we haven’t even discussed my breaking the contract or whether or not he plans to go after what my father offered him?

He glances over his shoulder, and I follow his line of sight, settling on the man in all black at the back of the room.

“That do?” he asks him.

“That will do, Mr. Fikile.” The man bows his head, disappearing the same direction the servers did.

Enzo goes back to eating, finishing off every last bite on his plate.

My mouth opens, closes, and opens again, yet still nothing comes out. Not even when he pushes to his feet. I watch silently as he drains what’s left in his mug and wipes his mouth with a cloth, his long fingers now moving across the buttons of his dress shirt.

“That was your declaration of consent, by the way,” he finally offers, his attention on his waist as he tucks his top into his charcoal-colored slacks. “The marriage license you signed before you tried to leave me will be filed by nightfall.” He slides his jacket on as he walks to the door opposite of the one I entered through, pausing with one hand pressed to the heavy wood. His eyes finding mine. “By this time tomorrow, Boston Revenaw will cease to exist.”

Wait.

What?