Page 15 of Inconvenient Marriage
“Is it not allowed? Men propose all the time. Maybe it’s my turn.”
I can see that. “Most people date before marriage comes up.”
And a good amount date before they fuck the first time, unless they met like we did.
I don’t add that. I don’t have to. She knows exactly what I’m thinking. I’d bet on it.
“Most people aren’t interested in a marriage of convenience,” is her prim retort. “And that’s what I’m proposing.”
I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly amused. Aroused, too, because she looks fucking gorgeous in that dress… but amused, too. She proposed to me.Me. I’m sure I’m just another target, and I hate to think she might’ve banged her way through the Order so that doesn’t make me special, but I won’t deny the way my heart jumped the same time my cock twitched just to hear her husky voice again.
“And you think I’m a good choice?”
Come on, love. Give me something to work with. Admit you remember me, let me know if there’s a good reason why you’ll chooseme?—
“I just need a husband.”
I glance at her lower belly. “Because you’re in the family way?”
Her mouth works for a moment. She blinks. “In the… did you just ask me if I’m pregnant?”
I shrug because… yeah. I did.
She gives me a quelling look. “Not that it’s any of your business?—”
“It isn’t?”
“No,” she says firmly. “And I’m not. Like I said, I just need a husband. If I can’t find one, my sister… let’s just say, Ihaveto find one. Not forever. Give me a year, and I’ll be the most perfect wife you’ll ever ask for. I will be for whoever marries me. I’m not picky.”
Ouch. That shouldn’t sting as much as it does, especially since she already proved that at the Last Prayer. She wanted a man that night, too, and I was there.
I’m here now.
She wants a husband. I can see the determination written on every inch of her stunning face. The first guy who sayssurewill get to call her his. Not because she’s knocked-up with a Reynolds baby, but because she’s trying to get around the Order’s rules.
As if I couldn’t be any more attracted to her, I have to admit: she’s a woman after my own heart. I live to mess with the Order.
And I’d kill nearly every bastard in the Court to be the one she chooses to marry.
She’s desperate, but face to face with the woman who’s haunted me for months, so am I.
I can’t let her know it. Easy Bas. You got this.
Leaning back on the heels of my boots, I ask, “How do you know I’m not already married?”
She’s undeterred. “I don’t. If you’re one of the Owed, you very well could be.”
Freeing my right arm, I flash her my palm.
Every Owed gets branded in. The Order was founded in August, some two hundred years ago by my great, great, I don’t know how many greats, great-grandfather, Samuel E. Reynolds. In case I can’t forget that he was the first King, all I have to do is drive downtown and visit the Fortress, the Order’s headquarters. My ancestor’s name is written in big brass letters on the front.
She nods slowly. Obviously, I’m one of the Owed. You can’t get into the King’s Court without a brand. It should be the same for the women, too; the Used has a smaller, daintier version of the Order’s emblem burned onto their neck to mark them the same way a wedding ring does for a Claimed Offering.
No mark for my beauty. No ring, either.
Not yet.
Her gaze returns to my easy grin. “Is that why you wore the gloves? To hide that?”
