Bad Little Bride

The day I found my mother dead in her bed is one I’ll never forget.

I’ll forever carry with me the way her cold, pale-blue body looked when I tore the covers back.

The first thing I did was look for blood; my mind already trained to seek out a weeping wound at the small age of eight. God knows, I’d witnessed my father returning home covered in it enough times to be able to determine if it was by injury…or infliction. Ninety-nine percent of the time it was the latter.

My father is very good at his job.

Enzo might be better.

The thought irritates me, probably because it’s true. He wouldn’t be the youngest, and only man to take his businesses into multiple districts on his own, creating a brand-new empire like no other can claim to have—a man employed by not just those from one, but multiple districts at once, and in record time too—if he weren’t.

He wouldn’t have been able to show up in Revenaw territory, kidnap and take me back to his, if he weren’t. And he sure as hell wouldn’t have been able to hide the fact that he already had a wife from the tech team my father put on him after I confessed what I’d done—became the fiancée of Enzo Fikile without his permission.

My father would have put him in the ground for the insult alone. He would have been considered the threat we’d already seen him as, only this time with a giant, treacherous target pointed across every inch of his skull at a 360-degree angle.

He married someone and then tossed her aside for someone else.

Me.

The truth is as clear as the crystals lining the living room.

I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse, promise be damned.

Not that a promise made by a moralless man means a damn thing, but it may have meant something to her as it does me, as stupid as that sounds.

Technically speaking, our contract is nothing but a promise, considering what Enzo said is true. He is the law, so if he wanted to end the legally binding relationship, both the agreement in ink and the marriage license stamped with the state seal, he could.

He would lose the respect of the other elder and head families—real men don’t go back on their word, it’s the only thing that means a damn in this world, but did he not do that already?

He married that girl, then divorced her when a more lucrative offer came along.

What’s to stop him from doing the same to me?

A better question, though, is who will die when he does, because my father, superseded by Bastian or not, would never let that stand.

He will come at Enzo with all he has.

Who will win, I have no idea, but when that day comes, it’s not my husband’s hand I’ll fight for.

That’s for damn sure, not when I’ve woken from a dead sleep every hour with the image of Katana slipping over my eyes, just as I did with my mother the first year following her death.

A humorless laugh leaves me and I pick up the giant fucking blunt still glaring at me from where it was left on the edge of the vanity and move to the balcony.

I light my candle, then roll the tip of the blueberry-flavored wrap through the flame before bringing it to my lips.

It’s pathetic, honestly. I was devastated when my mother died, maybe even traumatized, so that made sense.

I’m not devastated that my fake, contractual husband—who only wanted me for the power I can give him—already had a wife. How foolish would I be if I were?

No, this is just…anger. Yeah, that’s all it is.

If that’s true, then why did my desperate heart find comfort in the vows he stole from me?

Because for the first time, you had a label to your name that meant something.

I groan, shaking my head, because yeah. I’m that tragic.

Finding out I was married to Enzo did mean something to me. Not as a woman and man taking that next step, but as someone who craved…more.

Suddenly, I wasn’t just the other twin, the extra heiress that didn’t make the cut into the cardinal compass that makes up the Greyson girls, even if there are only three and there is supposed to be four.

I was—no, I am someone’s wife.

Not just any someone, but Enzo Fikile, billionaire and Fikile Elite Security’s CEO. King of his very own empire.

Little did I know, I’ll never be his queen.

What was it he had said? He needs a wife who doesn’t sit back like a voiceless doll?

“Fine,” I mutter, falling back on the soft cushions beneath me to stare up at the dark sky—another day wasted away in my room.

Pulling a few short hits into my lungs, I release them into the air above, watching as the smoke disappears as if it was never there in the first place, like a bad omen.

“You want a vocal wife? That’s what you’ll get.”

Maybe he’ll let me go faster this way before I do something really fucking stupid.

Like fall in love.

Another laugh leaves me and for the first time in a long time, a real smile curves my lips.

Yeah, fucking right.

The next morning, my ass no sooner drops into the seat beside his at the head of the table when my mouth opens. “I want a phone, and I want it today.”

Enzo’s hand freezes, tapping several extra h’s to whatever word he was trying to spell on his tablet. Slowly, he sets it down, blacking out the screen as he faces me.

“Don’t say excuse me or come again or ask me to repeat myself when you heard me loud and clear.” I take the whipped cream dispenser and squirt a hefty amount, followed by my beloved caramel. “My dad is alive, says you. My sister is where she belongs, according to you.”

Rather than speak, Enzo reaches beside him, coming back with a small white gift bag he sets on the tabletop. On the opposite side of which I’m sitting.

The giant apple with a small bite out of it in the center of the gift bag leaves no room for speculation of what’s inside.

My eyes dart to his, but he isn’t looking at me. He’s lifting a perfectly square waffle from the giant stack before us, setting it in the center of my plate. Next, he takes two stemless strawberries from the fruit bowl, slicing them longways on his own plate, and scrapes them on top of the giant carb. He doesn’t stop there, snagging the whipped cream from me and adding a heavy dollop in the center.

He fills his plate—sausage and eggs again, surprise, surprise. Only once he’s satisfied with the food before him, does he pin those eyes on me.

Realization dawns and I gape at him. “Are you serious?”

“Do you know me as a man who jokes?”

“I know you even less than I assumed I did.”

At that, a heavy scowl falls over him. “What does that mean?”

“It means you are a man of many secrets, Enzo Fikile.”

His eyes narrow suspiciously. “And you are my wife, which means you are now privy to all of them.”

“Sure. Whatever.” Because if I asked him about Katana he would answer honestly.

He lifts a sharp brow. “You doubt me?”

“I would have to trust you to doubt you, which I do not.”

“You trusted me enough to trap yourself on an island in the middle of the Pacific with me.”

“That wasn’t trust. That was a pitiful attempt of self-salvation.”

“You trusted me enough to move into my home without your security detail.”

“A hazard of my last point.”

“I’m not sure you made one.”

“Well then, let me make one now.” I slap my hands on the edge of the table, rising but keeping my face in his. “You were right, I’m not a doll, which means my owner doesn’t get to decide what I eat. I am not a dog, so I don’t do tricks for treats. And I am not your prisoner, so I will not stay locked up in this fucking house while you are off playing bodyguard. I might not have much of one, but if you think you are going to control every aspect of my life, you’re wrong.”

Enzo shoots to his feet, his chair toppling over behind him as he too gets in my face, but I don’t back down.

“I want to talk to my sister.”

“Try again.”

“You can’t keep me⁠—”

“I said,” he shouts, cutting me off, his voice lower when he continues. “Try. Again.”

My eyes narrow and he levels me with a hard look, one that confuses me. It’s sharp and angry, but behind the harsh lines and clenched jaw is a glint of something else. A challenge.

Unsure, yet somehow completely certain, I do as he demanded. I try again.

“I am going to talk to my sister.”

I wait for him to argue, to make a move that leaves me feeling foolish for assuming I could speak Enzo and read this right, but I don’t get that. Instead, he reaches across the small space separating us, pulling my hair from where it lays against my back so it’s falling over my shoulders between us. He runs his fingers through the length, styled in loose barrel waves today with the top half pulled back in a rubber band, and two long strips hanging loose in the front like long bangs.

“If you try to run from me, Little Bride…” He stares at the tips, his thumb circling a small piece trapped in his fist.

“I’ll regret it?” I finish for him, reminding him he already issued this particular threat. “News flash, I’m no fool. If I were going to make some sort of plan to run away, I sure as hell wouldn’t be dumb enough to try and set it up while I was within these walls.”

His eyes snap up to mine, my hair still loose in his grip.

“If you run from me,” he repeats, dark hazel eyes intense on mine. “I will find you. I will bring you back, and I will chain you to me.”

“You forget.” I hold his gaze, refusing to move an inch, my elbows locked tight and spine slightly aching from leaning in the way I am, but he doesn’t need to know that. “You’ve already done that.”

“So you understand now.”

“Understand what?”

“That there is no you without me.”

Anger heats my skin, and when I respond, it’s through clenched teeth. “Then that must mean there is no you without me.”

Slowly, Enzo releases my hair, pushing to his full height, and silently leading my body to do the same. He comes around the edge of the table, stepping right up to me, right into my space, and grips my chin between rough, yet gentle fingers.

“That.” His eyes burn through mine. “Is exactly what it means.”

My brows snap together, my brain having expected him to say something of the opposite effect. I open my mouth to say what, I don’t know, but the words die on my lips when the doors to my left open, and he turns to see who’s entered.

I don’t know who it is and I don’t care. The only thing that exists in this moment is this corded neck directly in my line of sight.

Angry, welted skin stares back at me, then, precise lines the color of red fucking velvet curve and curl and I’m barely able to hold in a gasp as shock shudders through me.

I don’t realize I’ve reached out to touch him until a hand latches around my wrist. Based on how Enzo’s head snaps back my way, his eyes narrowing a split second before his hold on me loosens to a ghost of a touch, I would say it was just as much a subconscious move for him as it was me.

My eyes fall back to his neck, and as if he just realized why I reached out at all, his chest expands in my peripheral.

Rather than stepping back or letting go completely, he gently guides my hand closer, until the knuckle of his thumb is pressed to his own collar.

My gaze locks on his, and I swear the green in his disappears, but I can’t hold his stare any longer. My eyes are commanded, forced back to his skin by some invisible force I can’t control, and my insides spin and flip and tighten.

Confusion swirls in my mind.

Longing leaks behind my rib cage.

Neither makes any sense.

Slowly, my fingers edge closer, and when I feel the small slashes, the gasp I held off slips. His skin, it’s molten. Literally hot to the touch.

“What did you do…” I marvel.

“What I’ve wanted to do for a long fucking time.”

Our eyes collide and I swear electricity sparks as if we’re two stripped wires pressed together. It’s unnerving.

He doesn’t explain.

Doesn’t say a word in fact.

Enzo releases me, backs up, and walks right out the door.

Like we weren’t in the middle of a confusing conversation.

Like he didn’t say without saying he would stop me if I tried to leave the house.

I stare after the space he disappeared, so in my head that I jump when a sharp chime rings out, followed by another. My eyes slice to the little white bag and I walk around the table, hesitantly peeking inside. A phone sits right there on top, a pillow of tissue beneath it.

A small smile finds my lips as I reach in and pull it out, the case a sleek boxlike shape, small specks of glitter highlighting the soft jade color of the phone.

It chimes again in my palm and I flip it over, sucking in a sharp breath. The screen is lit up with the small green envelope alerting me of the messages I heard come through, but that’s not what has my toes curling in my slippers, it’s the photo on the lock screen.

It’s Enzo and I the day the magazine girl mistook me for my sister. My back is pressed to the railing and he’s leaning in, my hand in his hair and his on my hips. Our eyes are locked and the expression on our faces almost makes me blush. We look scandalous. Ravenous.

We look like we’re in love.

The phone vibrates again, so I swipe my finger up and it unlocks immediately.

That sharp breath turns into a gurgled knot when I find the image programmed to the home screen. There are no apps disrupting the picture, so I get the full effect without restraints.

It’s Enzo in his dark slacks, his dress shirt discarded to leave him in one of those white tank tops. It’s a selfie but I don’t even get to sit on the surprise that a man like him takes selfies because the image…it’s a fucking good one.

He’s slouched in a fancy armchair I’ve never seen, his head tipped lazily, offering his profile, the sharp lines of his jaw and curves of his full lips that are pressed together, only a hint of his dark eyes seen as he stares off at nothing. But it’s not the rugged perfection of a man not even trying that has my blood heating. It’s the angle in which he took the shot, capturing the kiss I pressed against his neck the other night.

The lipstick-stamped kiss that was still there this morning.

Because he tattooed it to his skin.