Page 42 of Pretty Little Threats

Palm smacking against the wall, I release a growl.

Fuck. This.

I all but kick the door in and Rose gasps, clutching my blanket around her body and pushing her lithe frame into the headboard. I stare at my soon-to-be wife, taking in her red-rimmed eyes, the way her fingers tremble, her wide, confused pupils.

Scared.

No. Terrified.

And then recognition flickers over her features. Her shoulders droop, no longer tense and ready to fend off an attacker. Whether she likes it or not, some part of her thinks I’m safe, and that, in itself, will be our damnation. I’m not her savior. I’m not her prince. She should run, but the monster inside me already knows it’s too late for her.

There’s no escaping now.

“Rose.”

She sniffs. “Dare.”

I keep my movements slow as I approach my side of the bed, my gaze trained on her. “I’m not going to let a Miller kick me out of my bed.”

Rose blinks, then her lips pull back as she bares her teeth at me, ready to argue.

Good. I need that spark. The fire of fight that burns in her is my favorite thing about her.

“Save it. It’s almost two in the morning.” Using the switch next to the headboard to turn the lights off, I crawl in next to her and punch my pillow, rolling away from her and waiting her out.

Her gaze drills into my back, but after a few minutes, she emits a soft sigh and lies down. This time, there are no tears, there are no little pained sounds. Her breathing evens out, and the princess falls asleep in the beast’s bed.

There was no rest to be found with Rose Miller in my bed. At some point, I rolled over to look at her. I found her facing toward me, her fingers inches away from my pillow, and something in my chest loosened.

Instead of contemplating ways to get rid of her, like I should have, I spent too many hours wondering what sort of damage Joseph Miller caused, what makes her shutter her every thought until that icy mask slips into place. I spent far too long staring at the marks Eric left all over her body. The cut on the gentle curve of her cheek. The violent purple and blue bruises on her pale arm. The red gash marring her plush lip. Every bit of her is delicate, and seeing the reminders of the rough touches curdles my blood.

Clenching my jaw, I try to beat back the protective urges, but it’s impossible, especially now that she’ll be my wife. No one hurts my family.

I force myself to leave the bed at dawn and work out in one of the guest bedrooms that doubles as a home gym, hoping to clear my head. Except, by the time I’m finished, impatience buzzes in my chest. There are thingsto be done. Coffee. Breakfast. Marriage licenses. Prenuptial agreements.

Leaving Rose alone in my house goes against my every instinct, but when she shows no sign of waking by nine, I slip out of the house to get all the arrangements in place.

A few hours later, a familiar name flashes across my phone screen as I finish reviewing the contract my lawyer drew up.

“Mace.”

Maccon Astor, heir to Rex Technologies—the largest tech conglomerate in the United States—and one of my closest friends helped me break into Rose’s house.

Last we talked, I was asking for his help disabling her security system and that of every house on Rose’s block. Good thing too. There’s no visual evidence of what transpired.

“Did you take care of your problem?” Mace asks.

An image of Rose’s hand next to my pillow flits through my mind. “Almost.”

He pauses. “Dare . . .”

Sighing, I push the stack of papers away from me and nod at the lawyer. “What, Mace?”

“Why is Rose Miller in your kitchen?”

Relief floods through me. Good, she’s still there. Then his words hit me for the second time. “Why are you spying on me?” I snap.

“I was checking on you,” Mace says. “You didn’t return my calls. I worried Joseph finally got the best of you. It seems his daughter’s pussy?—”

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