Page 6 of Making the King

“Living with me won’t be like a prison.” I snap, feeling the sting of her insult.

Her dark brows hitch. “I’m still your wife. That sounds like a prison to me.”

She brushes past me, moving to the passenger door, getting in.

Fuck. She could be more grateful. I get that this isn’t the best situation, but we’ve worked on getting her released for the entire time she was locked up, and this is what I get.

Rounding the truck, I climb in and start up the engine, acutely aware of her presence in the cabin. My knuckles turn white as I grip the steering wheel, my eyes trained straight ahead, not really seeing anything as her pissy attitude digs its claws into me.

Calm the fuck down, man.

She doesn’t understand.

She thinks I bought her from an online black-market auction and married her underage.

Well yes, that is what happened, but she doesn’t know that the marriage was a ruse to protect her. She doesn’t know that we were there to save her.

She doesn’t know me. She only knows the persona I was in that day as I performed the ruse.

Shifting next to me, Cara stretches her legs out, placing them on the dash of my truck, and my fucking blood boils.

“Get your fucking feet off the dash.”

The low growl that comes from me causes her to shift a little, but her feet remain in place.

Slowly, I release the wheel and turn in my seat, glaring at her.

“I won’t ask fucking twice, Cara. Get your feet off the dash.”

A sinister smirk slowly spreads her lips, drawing my eyes to them and how fucking plump they still are.

“Too late. You already did.”

“What?” I snap in confusion as I drag my gaze from her lips to her eyes that appear more gray than usual.

“You said you won’t ask twice, but you already did. You asked the first time, and then right after you said you won’t ask twice. So you did.” She smirks. “Ask twice.”

My lips part to argue with her, but she has a fucking point which I don’t want to admit, so I lurch forward, grabbing her ankles and pull her feet down off my dash.

“Hey! Don’t touch me!” She hisses, her fists balled like she is preparing to throw a punch.

I chuckle. “You’re my wife. It’s my right.”

You fucking idiot. What sort of moronic caveman comment was that?

“Yeah? Well, I’m not opposed to becoming a widow. I hope you know how to sleep with one eye open.” She shoves me back, her small hands stronger than they look.

I chuckle. She’s kind of funny.

Even so, I’m not dumb enough not to take her threat seriously. I could always tell her the truth about that day. Explain to her why she’s still my wife when the whole thing was a ruse, but this way seems more fun.

Let her be fucking scared of me.

What do I care?

As soon as the twelve months are up and we can file for a divorce, assuming I can keep her out of trouble from violating the terms of her parole, then she can walk the fuck away, and I can turn my focus back on saving more innocent children.

Turning my sights to the road, I pull out of the prison parking lot and turn the radio up to fill the cabin with music as we make the two-hour drive back to Santa Cruz.

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