Page 26 of Inconvenient Marriage
She blinks. “I don’t know what you mean.”
That’s what she says. The way she braces herself, it’s like she expects me to invoke one of the intimacy clauses then and there, telling her to strip so I can fuck her here and now.
And, sure, that sounds pretty fucking amazing, but that’s only if I want to enjoy my new wife for a year. Fuck, no. Like Adrian, I looked at this woman and saw the promise of forever—and that’s what I’m playing for now.
“‘Course you do. You proposed to me, love. I don’t know about you, but I’m expecting a wedding.” Giving in to my desire to touch her at last, I grip her chin between my thumb and my pointer finger. “The sooner the better. I need your input before I can hire someone to put it together for us.”
Her lips part. I nearly dip my head, kissing her, but as though she can sense my hunger, she uses the excuse to drop her purse back to the couch before sitting demurely down again to put some distance between us.
“No need to hire anyone,” Annaliese says primly. “I used to be an event planner. Though I don’t see any reason why we need to have a wedding for a marriage of convenience?—”
I flash her a grin. “Humor me. I never planned on getting married at all. If I’m going to do it now, I might as well do it right.”
She clears her throat. “Yes. Well… if you think we should?—”
“I insist. Nothing fancy if that’s not your style. We book St. Catherine’s so that no one can deny we had an Order wedding, then have a small reception somewhere. You’ll need a dress, of course. Flowers. Whatever you want for your wedding?—”
“Fake wedding,” Annaliese cuts in.
“I don’t do fake,” I toss back. This time, I reach into the back pocket of my jeans. Taking out my wallet, I rifle through my cards while she stands there, trying to understand just what I mean by that. You’d think it would be pretty clear. I say what I mean, mean what I say, and if I’m getting hitched, it’ll be for real.
I pull out my black Amex. “Here. Take this. Whatever you want for our ‘I do’s, you get it.”
She takes it with trembling fingers, her expression a mix between surprise and suspicion.
I wordlessly dare her to say something to me about the card.
Yes, my family is loaded. Yes, my parents have used money to bail me out a thousand times. They pay for my mistakes, and I’ve let them because I never asked to be born into the secret society that’s turned me into the man that I am. I’m not as bad as I used to be—becoming even more of an outcast when half the town blames you for one of their own taking a swan dive off a building because of you has a tendency to straighten even the biggest assholes out—and I only use their money to survive these days… but if Annaliese was willing to open up about what being in the Order means for her, I might as well start by doing the same.
She reads my name on the card. Glancing around, I see her taking in my living room with a different eye. Earlier, she was too nervous to really focus on her surroundings. Now? She sees the expensive furniture, the huge ass television, the knick-knacks that Maman bought for me to add some ‘personality’ to my home after I left hers.
“I used to be an event planner,” Annaliese murmurs. “What is it you do?”
I smirk. It’s a defense mechanism that I’ve used for so long, I barely notice that I’m doing it. If I’m not being charming Bas, I’m being Sebastien Reynolds the cocky prick—and that’s infinitely better than the scrappy bastard who will throw a punch first, ask questions later.
“Me? I’m a trust fund baby. Why? That turn you off?”
It sure as fuck does me. I’m the world’s biggest hypocrite. I rail against the constraints of the Order while relying on what it’s done for my family and its wealth over the last two hundred years to live my life.
She’s quiet for a moment, then she shakes her head. “I don’t want your money, but if you have a card like this, you won’t miss what it’ll cost to host a small, intimate wedding. After all, you want one.”
Her unsaidI don’thangs between us.
I don’t care. My smirk softens into an honest smile regardless. I don’t know what I would’ve done if she tried to refuse or tell me that she would pay, but I won’t have to worry about that. She’s right. I won’t miss it, and neither will my folks. Hell, once they figure out that the charges are because one of their sons is getting married, they won’t say a damn word about me using it for more than gas and my tab down at the Court. And when I let Annaliese keep it in case she needs it—despite her ridiculous idea that what’s mine is mine and what’s hers is hers—they won’t stop me.
If giving my new wife whatever she wants is all that makes me a worthwhile husband, at least I can do that.
I’m not above using her fears against her—or buying her if that’s what it takes.
EIGHT
BLOOD OATH
SEBASTIEN
When Dallas took over as the King, he did it because there was no one else better for the job. He had his father to thank for that. Jack Collins spent more than two decades beating every last thing there was to know about the Order of the Owed into his boy. When Jack died, the Order succession meant that Dallas was his heir. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t married, or that he still isn’t thirty until next year. He was next in line, and the Order’s bylaws were clear: unless he stepped down, the title was his.
The title, and the responsibility.
