Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 102335 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102335 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
“Did he say anything about old man psycho who used to drug you in your bed as a child being the same person who he calls Skully?”
I place Wolf on the floor and he runs back to Betty. “No. I didn’t say anything to him after I blurted it out in a drug haze.”
Betty scoops up Wolf. “Mmhm. Well, you’re a better woman than me, but we already know this.”
I stand from the chair, brushing my hair over my shoulder and turning to face Betty. “You do look beautiful. So sad I won’t be there.”
“I don’t want either of you in the firing line if anything happens.”
“I know.” She closes the distance between us, bringing her hands to my shoulders. “I just wish I was there, you know. I always figured I’d be your maid of honor.”
I squeeze her hand. “Not this time.”
She breezes toward the door. “I’ll text you when we get to the clubhouse, and let’s hope I don’t kill any of these boys in leather.”
The door closes just as I yell out, “Be nice!” We all know that she won’t.
Gathering up the rest of my things, I roll the garter up my thigh, and check myself one last time in the mirror.
The altar is too long and the church too white. Too religious. I feel like an atheist whose skin is burning with every step that I take to the end. I let Mik take my hand as we exchange vows, and I purposely ignore all of the leather that is standing in the back room.
We say I do.
He walks me back down the aisle, and Papa smiles at me with pride. Too much pride…
My steps are slow as I brush past the group at the back, who chose to stand, not sit. My eyes collide with Wicked and seconds pass.
Sliding into the back seat, I slam the door closed as Mik sits beside me, opening his phone. An emptiness throbs in my gut as I think over everything that has lead me to this point. Marrying someone I would rather push under a bus.
The car stops and he takes my hand, leading me out of the back seat. The more time goes on, the faster the wheels spin in my head. What war with the Irish? They’ve been quiet since. Why did I need to do this? The La Rosa family name is enough for people to fear. We didn’t need to join alliances with the damn Bratva. I understand why as far as money, power, greed, but as an army? What if the Bratva decide to fucking kill me instead, or better yet, abuse me the entire time of my marriage? I don’t have anything to hold my safety. Nothing but trust in Papa.
Which I have.
The conference room at our hotel is dressed up in floral arrangements that release redolence that makes my nose pinch. I hate it, but I also don’t care.
Papa’s hand rests on my lower back as he leans into my ear. “You happy, principessa?”
I smile against him, patting his withered hand. “Sure.” I feel his energy before I see him. Like a flame raging more ardently as seconds pass by.
He brushes past me as he heads out of the emergency exit. Maybe something is wrong. Betty and Wolf are at the clubhouse. Before I can stop myself, I excuse myself from the conversation and Papa glares at me as I make my way through the same door Wicked went. I hadn’t even set foot out the door when he pulls me out.
“What is it?” I ask, searching his eyes. “Is something wrong?” He slams the door closed behind me, the muscles in his arms rippling.
“Wicked!” I shift around and push the locked door. “You did that on purpose. Why? Why do you fucking do this and make it harder on both of us?”
Our bodies brush against each other when his hand falls from the door. “You’re making this worse than it needs to be.”
He brings his finger to the side of my head, running it down to my lips. My skin prickles. “Nah, but I’m about to.” He slides his thumb between my lips, and I don’t know if it’s from the stress happening around me or the utter feral hold that our bond has on both of us, but my hips grind forward. His thumb disappears, related by his lips as he pulls my dress up and grips me around my thighs, slamming me against the door. Gripping on to the lace garter around my thigh, he tears it off. My legs wrap around his waist as I feed him everything he’s ever wanted.
“You wanted this,” I whisper against his mouth, sinking my teeth into his pout every few seconds. “To fuck me in my wedding dress knowing I was marrying him.” He grips my throat and forces me back against the door. Pain erupts against the back of my head, but I suck the taste of him off my lips anyway. Wicked is toxic for my soul, but the thing about toxicity is it’s addictive. He will always take care of us. Yet even then, I want to scream at him. Ask him why he would kill my mother? Because I fucking know he did, and as the saying goes—my throat constricts around the realization of what I need to do. Just one last time. One last time before my knife finds his heart.