Cannon (Carolina Reapers Book 5)

Ipaced the length of my foyer, my cream pumps keeping time with the ancient grandfather clock that decorated the space. The second hand ticked louder than it had when it was originally constructed, or so I’d been told, but I’d become accustomed to the steady click of it. And right now, that second hand felt like it counted down my very life’s breath.

Because Cannon Price would be here any minute.

My heart raced despite my efforts to calm it. Gerald—head of security and currently on gate duty tonight—had phoned down moments ago informing me Mr. Price would like to see me. Lord, bless Gerald. He’d been like a second father to me growing up, and he was just as protective.

I’d barely been able to manage a full sentence when Cannon had called me the hour prior, saying he wanted to talk. And rattling off my address had never been harder.

“You honestly think two people that different have any business sharing a last name?”

Cannon’s words echoed in my head, stinging just as much now as they had the first time I’d heard them. Of all the things I’d expected walking to the weight room in search of him, those cold words were the last. Cannon was many things—grumpy, guarded, and infuriatingly teasing—but he’d never been outright icy toward me.

And yet, when I’d told him about my mother, something in him had melted toward our predicament. That softness I sometimes caught in his hard, dark gaze had surfaced.

“I don’t hate you.”

The memory sent a warm chill over my skin.

The breath in my lungs halted as two strong thuds sounded against my front door. I swore even the grandfather clock paused as my fingers reached for the knob. This moment would either make or break me, and it was all in Cannon’s hands.

After a deep breath, I straightened my spine and slowly opened the door.

Cannon wore a black pair of Reaper athletic pants, and a tight black T-shirt covered his incredibly muscled chest and torso. Those damn arms were on display, though, enough to make heat sizzle in my blood. The whorls of ink created patterns and pictures—a story I desperately wanted to understand.

“You live with your parents?” Cannon tucked his hands into his pockets, leaning against the doorframe like he’d be content to speak to me about our future on the porch.

I shook my head, pointing behind him and to the east. “No,” I said. “They live on the eastward portion of the estate.”

Cannon arched a brow, his jet-black hair falling slightly over his forehead as he waited. Silent, yet with the churning ferocity of a storm building over the ocean. Damn this man, why did he make me feel so small? I’d never had that problem my entire life, despite being short.

“Would you please come in?” I motioned behind me. “I have a pitcher of ice tea in the study.”

He snorted, likely at my southern manners, but elected to come all the way into my home. The heat from his body seemed charged as he passed me, like running my fingers over staticky fabric.

He checked out my clock for a heartbeat before saying, “Lead the way, Princess.”

I ignored the pet name and nodded, heading toward the study and not daring to look back. I needed Cannon, whether I wanted to admit it or not. I’d quell the instinct that only manifested in this man’s presence—the one that told me to push him back and pull him in all at the same time.

Cannon ignored the leather chairs situated near the bay windows and instead went straight to my study’s farthest wall. His eyes danced over the ancient spines of my personal collection of books, those hands still secured in his pockets—as if he were afraid of what he’d touch if he let them out.

A grunt was all he deemed to voice after his perusal.

“Thank you for coming,” I said, hating that my voice quivered. There had been countless times I’d needed something from others—charity donations, business mergers, event spaces—but never once had I been so afraid as I was now. Perhaps that was due to the circumstances—our untimely marriage—made the situation a shade different than a donation request.

“Tea?” I asked, my fingers gripping the ice-cold pitcher resting on my desk in the far-right corner.

“No,” he said, finally facing me. “Thank you,” he added, likely for my benefit.

A small smile ticked at the corner of my lips at that thank you. I poured myself a glass and took a sip, the cold liquid hushing some of that heat that sizzled in my veins.

“Must be nice,” he said, motioning his head behind him toward the shelves.

I flashed him a confused look.

“To have first editions handed to you like candy canes on Christmas Eve.”

I set my tea down and plopped my hands on my hips. “Handed to me?” The bite in my tone practically had Cannon’s name on it since it only surfaced when he was in the room.

A smirk and a nod.

I sucked my teeth, my tongue sharp and ready to sting.

The image of my mother—the hope in her eyes and the fatigue—quashed the retort. Instead, I shifted out of my fighting stance, allowing my hands to hang loose at my sides. “I appreciate you coming,” I said, completely ignoring the game we usually played—the one where he taunted me until I ignited. I gripped the back of the leather chair for support. “Have you considered my offer?” I tried not to let the nerves—the desperation—show on my face.

He pursed his lips, those dark eyes trailing me up and down, questioning. Perhaps the jab had been an effort to bring us back to common ground—that space where we danced so viciously with each other yet never touched. I hadn’t taken the bait, not because I didn’t enjoy our little spats, but because this was important to me. More important than the thrill arguing with Cannon Price offered.

“I have,” he said, his deep tenor skating across my skin as fast as he moved on the ice. “And I have rules.”

The breath rushed out of my lungs, my shoulders curling inward slightly at his mention of rules. Rules meant he would agree. And I’d agree to anything that allowed my mother a few months joy before she—

“One,” he said, finally taking his hands out of his pockets and ticking the items off on his fingers. “You have to move in with me, because I sure as hell won’t live with your parents.”

“It’s a guest house,” I groaned, but he ignored me, pushing on.

“Two. You can have access to all of my accounts, but I want nothing of yours. You understand? Nothing.” He took a step toward me, then another. “I’ve worked hard for every single thing I’ve earned. I don’t need a handout—”

“Understood,” I cut him off, tipping my head back to meet his eyes. He stood so close I could smell him—a sharp, almost mossy green scent, edged with a lighter hint of citrus.

He cocked a brow at the interruption, but a lick of fire churned in those dark eyes, some sense of relief that I’d brought my bite back.

“Three,” he continued, not bothering to move back an inch. “The only people from my family invited to this wedding are my sister and my nephew—”

“Of course,” I cut in again. “I adore Lillian and would love to meet her son.”

A low huff, and I’d sealed my lips again. “Four,” he said, his eyes doing their best to scorch every inch of my body. A modest yet elegant sundress allowed my skin to breathe during the sweltering southern summer, but the way he looked at me? I may as well have been naked. Those damn eyes saw straight to the heart of me. “Don’t go falling in love with me, Princess. Because I’m sure as hell not your happily ever after.”

I glared up at him, my fingers trembling as I gripped the back of the chair even harder. “Not an issue,” I snapped, but instantly regretted it. Damn him. He knew how to get under my skin. Knew how to make me hiss. And it wasn’t fair to him. Because I could see it in the settled, broken pieces in his eyes, those jagged edges I don’t think anyone ever noticed because they were too afraid to get that close to him—I could see it. The truth he believed—that he wasn’t worth loving anyway—and some deep, aching part of me lurched at that notion. Again, I wanted to reach between us, wanted to touch him, hold his hand, or simply wrap my arms around the beast and tell him he was worth more than he allowed himself to believe.

“Five,” he growled, likely noting my train of thought with his infuriating ability to read me. “No sex. Zero sex.”

My lips popped open.

“Six,” he pushed on. “No sex with anyone else either because—”

“Won’t be difficult,” I grumbled.

He tilted his head. “I mean it, Princess. Just because I don’t scratch your itch doesn’t mean that trust-fund-douche is allowed to either.” The primal ownership in his tone uncoiled something hot and hungry in my core. I backed away from the safety of the chair, folding my arms over my chest. “Persephone.” He growled my name, and every nerve ending in my body stood at attention. “This is a deal-breaker for me. If you think you can’t handle not—”

“I haven’t had sex for twenty-four years, Cannon,” I cut him off, the breath rushing from my lungs. “I think I can handle another few months!”

Cannon’s lips parted, and he took a step away from me.

I held his gaze, not daring to be ashamed.

“You’re a…you’ve never had…” The words stumbled from his lips in the first show of shock and vulnerability I’d ever seen from him. The sight made a chuckle burst through my lips.

“A virgin, Cannon.” I grinned at him. “Not a bad word,” I said. “Certainly not foreign to you, I’m sure.”

“You’re a virgin.” The words were a whisper. “I thought that trust-fund—”

“Oh, Michael has tried,” I said, waving off the declaration. “But I don’t love him. Barely even like him.”

Could big scary NHL stars break? Because the way Cannon froze, the way he couldn’t gather his words…it sure looked like I’d broken him. I boldly took a step forward, so close I could’ve touched him if I wanted to. “When I do give myself to someone?” I mimicked his earlier appraisal of my body, taking in all the gloriousness of his. “It will be because I trust that man. Because I want that man more than I want myself. When I get that hungry? Then I’ll know the man I choose will be worth it.”

The bob of his Adam’s apple was his only response.

“Any other rules?”

A subtle shake of his head.

“Good, I agree to those rules. Now, I have a few of mine.”

“You’re not really in a position to be making rules here. I’m doing this for you—”

“And I appreciate that,” I said honestly. “I don’t know if I made myself clear in the locker room, but this will mean the world to my mother. And I’ll do whatever it takes to bring her joy in her last months on this earth.”

Cannon’s tense shoulders loosened just a fraction. “I do,” he said the words so softly I almost didn’t hear him. “I do understand,” he spoke up. “More than you know.”

I bit my bottom lip, studying the well of pain in his eyes. “Did you lose someone?”

A muscle in his jaw ticked, and that familiar iron wall dropped over his eyes. “What are your rules?”

I sighed. Fine. Fair enough. He wasn’t obligated to share, to open up. That didn’t mean I’d stop trying, though.

“You can’t get into any fights,” I said, ticking the first item off on my finger. The mimicked position from his earlier stance earned me the tiniest, if not briefest, of smiles. “No public scenes, violent or otherwise.”

Cannon folded his massive arms over his chest.

“And you can’t have sex with anyone else either.” The final rule came out firmer than the other two, and it dawned on me how this rule held more importance. To me, this one was the deal-breaker. The idea of him with another woman…I cringed. That inward swirling mount of jealousy is what urged me to buy him in that damned auction in the first place. I didn’t take one more second to ponder on it and instead pushed on. “Because, Cannon, for all pretend purposes, you’re mine.”

His lips curved at the edges—more bite than smile.

“And I do ask if you feel the…urge…feel like you might be on the brink of breaking that rule, that you ask me to satisfy it first.”

His eyebrows perked up at that, and the look made me tremble inside.

“I’ll be just fine without it,” he said. “And I won’t break my own rules. No sex.”

“Perfect,” I said, though a bit of disappointment fluttered through my chest. Not that I particularly wanted him to fight for the right to come between my thighs, but…

Well, it didn’t matter anyway.

This was clearly business, and at least on this end, we knew why we were going through with another marriage.

For the life of me, I wished I could remember my reasoning for the first time.

“So, we have a deal?” I offered my hand between us. Cannon eyed it for a few moments like I might have hidden some sort of taser between my fingers. “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” I said, and grabbed his hand.

A jolt of heat pulsed through me at the contact of his skin on mine—the roughness against my smoothness, the strength in his fingers yet the gentleness in which he held my hand.

Cannon shook it once, twice, and then released me and went so far as to take another step back.

Well, if this marriage wasn’t off to a most pleasant start.

“How many garment bags do you truly need, Princess?” Cannon grumbled as he carried in three more of the dozen or so said bags.

I shifted the box of cosmetics in my arms, clicking across the hardwood that lined his Reaper Village home. “With as many events, galas, and charity fundraisers as I attend, not to mention the meetings with Silas and his owner friends, how many appropriate dresses and gowns would you deem enough?”

He shook his head, moving past me and down the hall, toward my designated room—down the hall from his. “I think you’d be just as powerful in jeans and a T-shirt, more so maybe because you wouldn’t need all this fancy armor to hide behind.” He lifted the bags draped over his arms before shoving past me and depositing them on the bed.

I sat the box on the ottoman at the foot of the bed and whirled on him, my blonde hair snapping behind me. “I happen to enjoy wearing nice clothes, and that isn’t a crime, Cannon,” I snapped. This wasn’t the first time since I’d brought my things over to move in that he’d made a jab at my wealth. “And I don’t need fancy armor.”

“Sure thing, Princess.” He shook his head. “How many more ten-thousand-dollar dresses do we need to haul in?”

My eyes flared, and adrenaline pumped in my veins. It had been a long fucking week, and I was done with his attitude. “You’re one to talk. You have a closet full of fancy suits—”

“Coach makes us wear them to and from games.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m sure that’s the only reason you wear them, too. I’m sure you only took a modeling gig with Connell for that same reason, hmm? Because coach made you.” I scoffed. “Also made you buy that expensive beast of a car too? And this home and everything in it?”

He pressed his lips into a hard line, but his anger didn’t give me pause for one second.

“You may think it’s fine for you to have nice things because you’ve worked your butt off for it, but don’t for one moment presume to know me, Cannon Price.” I stepped closer to him, arching my neck to meet his eyes. “I may have been born with wealth, but I had as much say in that as anyone else who is born into whatever situation their family has brought them into the world under. But everything in my accounts? Every piece of clothing or possession you’ve hauled in here today? I worked for it. I earned it. I accumulated this wealth by waking up and busting my butt every single day. Just because I don’t do it on the ice or in the gym doesn’t make it less valuable.” Hot tears welled behind my eyes—a curse of mine, being an angry crier—but I didn’t dare let them fall.

“I didn’t say your work had no value.” The edge in his tone told me I’d hit him where it hurt.

Good. He deserved it.

He’s doing you a favor.

My fire soothed a bit at the voice in my head. I kept forgetting.

Kept forgetting this situation was for my benefit and not his.

But still, it didn’t give him free rein to stick it to me every time he felt like it.

My cheeks reddened at the train of thought until I was a jumble of nerves with images of a shirtless Cannon making me hot in so many other ways.

“Are there more?” he asked more gently, eying the bags and boxes strewn across the room.

“I don’t need your help. I can get them,” I said, striding past him. I made it to the end of the hallway before he blocked my path.

“Don’t,” he said, hands braced on either wall, preventing me from reaching the entryway of his home.

“Don’t what?” I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. A headache formed behind my eyes—a side effect from concocting this massive lie, most certainly. Fighting with Cannon, while most of the time was fun, had become exhausting today, like I was trying to hold my own against a tornado. A silent tornado.

“Don’t push me out like that,” he said. “I’m here. I want to help.” He shrugged, slowly dropping his hands and letting them hang at his sides. “Even if it doesn’t seem like it.”

I knew that. I truly did. I was just tired. So, so damn tired. I’d had to stick our official marriage license in the safe he’d shown me earlier, and part of me was heavy with the lie it represented. The other part? A mess of emotions I couldn’t begin to understand.

I studied Cannon for a moment, my eyes tracing the lines of ink decorating his neck. I itched to get closer, to run my fingers over the artwork covering his body. To understand the choices behind the patterns, the images. To understand the man before me.

“I know,” I finally said. “And I apologize if I don’t seem grateful. I am…indebted to you. For life. And possibly the next.”

A small, low laugh escaped his lips, the sound jarring me with its rawness, like he didn’t do it often enough.

Why? The question burned my tongue.

Why didn’t he laugh more? He had a family of brothers on the ice, had a wonderful sister who loved him, a nephew who adored him, and countless fans who cheered for him. What darkness had sunk its claws so deep in this man that he could find such little joy in life? What fueled the fights and the intimidating-as-hell exterior?

I parted my lips, almost brave enough to ask the questions haunting my mind.

“Why did you put me in the guest room?”

Almost brave enough.

But I knew him better than he thought I did. Well enough to know he wouldn’t let me in or tell me until he deemed me worthy enough. I simply hoped that day would come.

“Rule number five,” he said. “No sex.”

I laughed again. “And you think if I slept in the same bed as you I’d…what? Fall helpless to your spell? Lose myself with desire?”

Fire churned behind those dark eyes, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips.

The desire I joked about roared and thrashed.

“Of course not, Princess,” he said. “You’re much too strong for that.”

“Then why?” I pressed. “I’m your wife, after all. I could stand to sleep next to you. Sleep, and nothing more.”

Was I truly so repulsive to him that he couldn’t even stand that?

His gaze was like a brand as he surveyed me, some inner battle raging inside.

Too long. The silence between us became my every mortification. So I switched back to sass and anger, our common ground.

“Snobbery isn’t contagious, you know,” I said, and pushed past him, heading for the door. I wanted to get my last two boxes and lock myself in my sweet little guest room and pretend none of this was happening. Pretend like I didn’t want to dig beneath the surface with Cannon. Pretend like his proximity to me was anything more than a business arrangement.

Cannon beat me to the front door, his hand on the knob. “I think it’s funny,” he said, swinging the door open.

“What?” I asked when he didn’t elaborate. I followed him outside, where the last of my things awaited. He scooped up the two boxes like they weren’t filled with books and pumps, and paused where I stood at the edge of his porch. He glanced down at me and shook his head.

“That you think you’re the dangerous one.”

I narrowed my gaze, giving him a good glare before he stalked back into the house.

I remained outside, breathing in the fresh air because I knew the moment I stepped into his house, it would become mine for the foreseeable future.

Mrs. Cannon Price—sequestered to the guest room because her terrifying husband couldn’t and wouldn’t stand to let her in.