Playing with Fire: A Standalone Dark Romance

Chapter One

I like pretty broken things.

That”s what he had said when this farce of a marriage was arranged. If that wasn’t warning enough, then I don”t know what is.

I still signed that contract though; it’s my name scribbled on the dotted line tying me to the devil himself.

I am under no illusions, however, about the man I am about to marry.

Malakai Farrow is dangerous. Brutal. Controlling. Sitting on a throne made of blood and violence.

But I had to save my sister, and this was the only way.

”I don”t know, Oli,” Willow, my best friend, says with a wince, ”I really don”t like this.”

She knows about the wedding. Not about who Malakai really is, because I won’t bring her into this mess and endanger her, but she knows it”s an arranged marriage.

”Arranged marriages happen all the time,” I shrug as if it’s no big deal, ”you know that, Wils. It’s not an uncommon practice where we come from.”

”I know,” she huffs, angrily folding a t-shirt before she throws it into the open case, ”But a year ago you would have revolted at the idea. What changed?”

So much. Everything.

”My dad died, and Arryn already does so much. She deserves to be happy. I need help with the hotel, he can offer that while also fulfilling his duties.”

I”ve practiced that over and over in the mirror, so much so I’ve almost convinced myself that the words are true. They”re not lies per se, except for that last bit about the hotel. I can manage my late father”s empire just fine on my own.

”You don”t even know the guy.”

Willow Stanton has been my best friend since kindergarten, ever since she pushed a bully off the swing set in my defense. We”ve done everything together, college, travelling, heartbreaks, all the highs, and all the lows. She”s my family as much as Arryn, my older sister, is. I depend on her.

”It”ll be fine.”

”I guess he is hot,” she giggles, helping to pack the last bits in the bedroom into the boxes and cases. I roll my eyes.

Sure, Malakai is hot, scorching hot, but it’s the type that burns. There”s darkness in those blue eyes, brutality in his face, everything about him screams danger, from the sharp lines of his cheeks and jaw, to the dark mess of hair on his head. He is death in a suit and pain with a smile.

A tremor works through me.

Terrified doesn’t even cut how I feel about this marriage and the impending living situation. I’m moving in with him today and I haven’t stopped shaking since I woke up this morning, but I know I’ll do it, despite the fear and dread.

He had a hand in my father’s death, threatened my sister and the man she loved, but gave me the option to stop it if I just agreed to this marriage. So, I did.

Now my sister is living on this dreamy little island with a man who worships her, and friends who love her, so if it means letting her have that taste of happiness, then I’d do it again.

Of course, my sister fought me on the decision, tried to convince me not to do it, but in the end, we all knew this was the only way out. You can”t run from a man like Malakai. He is power. The quiet kind, the deadly kind.

”I think that”s it,” I blow out a breath and look around the room. This penthouse has been my home for three years, it’s the only home I’ve made for myself, a sanctuary I’m sad to see go. I doubt I’ll ever see it again once I step out this door and move in with Malakai.

The intercom buzzes and I hit the accept button, the front desk calling up.

”Your moving vans are here, Miss Lauder.”

”Let them up,” I approve and push back the sting of tears.

”Come here.” Willow drags me into her arms knowing exactly what I need, and she rubs my back as the first tear falls.

I hate crying. What was the point in tears really, when all they do is make your eyes sore and your face wet. They didn”t take away the pain, they just showed everyone your vulnerabilities and weaknesses. I swat at them angrily, huffing out an impatient breath, and try to get myself under control before the movers come in to haul my life away.

”You don”t have to do it, Oli.” Willow assures me. ”You don”t.”

”I know,” I lie, but I do have to, there is no get out clause, no loophole.

It takes an hour at most for the movers to get everything I own out of the apartment. There’s no point taking furniture or anything like that, so it’s being left and sold with the penthouse. Everything of value is in my boxes, clothes neatly packed in suitcases and bags. I stand at the side of the road as the vans pull away, watching as they disappear around the corner.

I don’t know what to expect. I haven’t yet been to Malakai’s house, have no idea where it even is, which is a daunting thought on its own.

In the weeks after the agreement, after he let my sister and her boyfriend go, he was silent, letting me fall into a false sense of security, but then I received a message from him a few days ago. I was expected to move back and be ready to relocate by the end of the week. I’d procrastinated for a few days at the start of the week, but when Wednesday rolled around, I knew I couldn’t put it off any longer.

Willow stands at my side protectively as a car pulls up, and a stoic looking man climbs out. Dressed in a dark suit with sunglasses covering his eyes, he steps onto the sidewalk, ahead of the two of us. I can”t see his eyes, but I know they”re assessing me, judging me.

”Miss Lauder?” He asks, voice deep and no nonsense. My internal alarm bells start to ring, heart thumping chaotically inside my chest.

”That”s me,” I hate the shake in my voice but there’s no hiding it.

”I”ll be your driver today,” he opens the back door to the Mercedes idling at the side of the road, ”Mr. Farrow has requested I take you straight to Silver Lake.”

”Speak now and I”ll get us out of here.” Willow hisses in my ear, her tone giving away her own fear for me.

”I”ll text you,” I tell her, giving her one last hug.

She pleads with her bright blue eyes, but I take that step away from her, scanning her features like this will be the last time I see her. I memorize the exact shade of her red hair, and the smattering of freckles she”s always hated, remembering the blue of her eyes and the pink gloss she loves so much, she wears it every day.

”See you soon.” I tell her before I turn my back and get into the car, the heat chasing away the January chill that had settled on my body.

My driver says nothing as he climbs into the front seat, pulling into traffic. In the silence I watch the city roll by, people going about their lives, laughing, and drinking coffee, wrapped up tight in their thick coats and bundled under layers of hats and scarves and gloves. The sky tumbles with grey clouds, an ominous feeling sinking into my gut as the car weaves through the city.

It”s when we start hitting the outer limits, the buildings becoming less and less that the fear and anxiety truly settle in. They roll like a swarm of angry wasps in the pit of my stomach, making my palms clammy and my legs ache with the urge to run.

It”s another hour before the car begins to slow, and the only thing that surrounds us is open space on one side, and a sprawling forest on the other, the road quiet and seemingly abandoned.

We stop at a set of large black gates, a wall over ten feet tall bracketing either side, and the driver punches in a code before the gates start to slide open.

I have no words as the tires roll through, bringing us into a place that can only be called paradise.

I”ve grown up with money, I’m used to wealth and privilege, used to the glam and the prestige, but this is a whole other league. The road we currently idle down is bordered by pristine, well-tended lawn; trees bare as they make a line around the perimeter to hide the imposing wall that surrounds the whole area. A large marble fountain sits in the center of the lawn, the water off since the harsh winter will only freeze it, but I can imagine how beautiful it would be in the warmer months. I see stables in the distance, horses out to graze in the meadows that are just beyond a line of wooden fences, separating that part of the estate.

But up ahead, right in the center, with a backdrop of what appears to be a never-ending forest, is probably the largest house I have ever seen.

It”s in a U shape, made up of red brick and black beams with a Tudor style feel to it. A deep-set porch draws my eye, leading to a huge oak wood door. Chimneys let out smoke that slithers into the sky like snakes and warm light spills from the large windows, cutting through the gloom.

It’s not what I had been expecting at all.

There”s a circular drive at the front of the house with several expensive vehicles parked around it, but I can also see a seven-vehicle garage to the side, which no doubt houses more luxury cars.

But despite the size of the property, despite the cars and the light, there is not a single soul to be seen.

My breath is caught somewhere in my throat, both awe and fear wrapping around me as the car comes to a gentle stop and the driver gets out.

My door is opened, but my body is frozen to the leather seats.

”Welcome to Silver Lake Estate, Miss Lauder, Mr. Farrow is expecting you inside.” My driver says, those dark glasses still covering his eyes, even with the lack of sun.

I still don”t move, swallowing the nausea that churns in my stomach.

I can’t do this.

This can’t be my life.

Less than six months ago, I was traveling the world with Willow, learning, exploring and now I am here.

”Miss Lauder,” the driver gets my attention, and I know I have to move.

While I don’t fully understand the business my future husband is involved in, or how it works, I do know that he is dangerous. I know he has hands in every pot and people in all the places, even the ones you least expect. It”s likely my driver is just as deadly, and I am not stupid enough to test his patience just to see what could happen.

I do have some survival instincts after all, and this isn”t a battle I”d win.

My heels touch down on the smooth pavement and as I climb from the car, a wind so cold it feels like it touches my bones, sweeps through the estate.

Even the weather is warning me to turn around, high tail it out of here and hide.

I flinch with the sound of the car door slamming. I expect the driver to leave but he doesn”t, instead he steps up next to me and guides me forward, a hand at my back but not touching, almost like he knows I’m flighty and is preparing to grab me in case I decide to run.

I glance at the shiny black Louis Vuitton’s on my feet and stifle a laugh. There’s no way I”m running in these shoes, and the gravel on the drive will just tear up my skin. The grass, however, could work, but then I’d have to figure out how to scale that ten-foot wall surrounding the estate. It’s tempting, but logically I know there is no escape.

My mind is still conjuring escape plans as my feet hit the top step of the porch and the front door swings open immediately, drawing my focus. An older woman with silver hair threaded throughout the dark strands steps out, as if she was waiting behind it this whole time, ready for the right moment to announce her presence. She”s dressed entirely in black, age lines her face but I wouldn”t put her much past her fifties, even if her expression, the downturn of her lips and the sneer, makes her appear much older.

”Mr. Farrow is waiting in the drawing room,” she says, her voice as cold as her expression, ”Follow me.”

I step over the threshold, the warmth of the house immediately chasing away the cold. It is entirely unexpected inside as much as the outside was, homely is the only way to describe it. I am not sure why I anticipated an almost sterile environment; I had an image in my head of all white walls with little personality, not this.

The foyer is decked with greenery, the walls an off-white color and a stag horn chandelier hangs from the ceiling. Art is mounted on the walls, paintings of forests and snowcapped mountains, and a lake that draws my attention more than the others. I find my feet pulling toward it, the hues of greys and whites and blues almost hypnotizing. It’s a huge lake painted in winter, with snowy shores and huge, towering pines that border it like sentinel guards. The sky is light grey, and the artist has even managed to paint little pockets of snow between the trees. If I couldn”t see the delicate strokes of paint, I”d believe it was a photograph.

”Miss Lauder,” I startle at the stern way she calls my name, ”This way, if you”ll please.”

”Right,” I nod, flicking my eyes some more around the space. Ahead of me is a huge staircase that leads to a level that then splits off left and right, but I can”t see further than that. There’s a closed door to the left that we don’t go in and more rooms down a dark hall next to the stairs.

I follow her down a separate corridor with more closed doors before we come out into a huge kitchen. Oak wood counters wrap around the space with every appliance you could ever need, a huge double fridge dominates one wall and in the center is an oak wood island, red velvet stools placed around it. A vase full of flowers sits in the center and the space is lit by spotlights placed in the ceiling. There is a set of French doors that looks to lead out onto a patio and as much as I want to go there, I can”t as the woman steers me down another corridor toward a door that is ajar at the end.

This house is huge, I can imagine how easy it would be to get lost in it. It smells of burning logs and cinnamon, a cozy scent that wraps around me and tries to put me at ease. I have enough wits about me not to fall for it.

The woman taps her knuckles on the door even though it’s open and his deep voice calls from the other side.

”Come in,” he says, his tone a rumble that zaps down my spine. It has a similar feel to that first sip of whiskey, it burns a little but warms you as you take it down, leaving behind a tingle that makes you crave more. My skin prickles as I take a step forward, my hand barely touching the door as I push it open.

The first thing I see is the fire crackling in the hearth, the flames strong and warm as they lick the bricks on the inside. My eyes follow the line up, seeing a mantel made of oak, a gleaming gold statue of a stag resting in the center and hanging in the middle of the flute is a huge painting of a woman, she has no features, and her back is facing me, her head turned to look over her shoulder. The background is black where she is bright, like a light in the shadows, her white dress hugging the curves the artist has painstakingly painted. Her hair is pulled up but wisps float around her face.

I focus on that instead of the desk to the right where I know he is sitting.

There”s a set of leather couches and chairs on the left side of the room, surrounding a dark wooden table. In the corner sits a grand piano, the gleaming black making my fingers itch to press on the ivory keys. I haven”t played for a while but it’s a skill one doesn’t forget.

With nothing more to look at, I finally draw my eyes to the man that makes the room feel much too small.

Malakai remains seated in his huge high back chair, the thing resembling more a throne than a desk chair, behind his obnoxiously large desk. A laptop is in front of him, the lid pulled down but not closed. There”s a stack of papers, a leather bound notebook with an embossed symbol on the front I can’t make out from here, and a tray with crystal glasses and a decanter of whiskey. But that’s it. Despite the absolute size of the desk, there”s barely anything on it.

A feline grin tugs up the sides of his mouth and his eyes lick down the length of me.

I”m hit with just how stunning the man is, but his beauty comes with a price. He”s a predator, a monster and as the door clicks closed, locking me in the room with him, I suddenly feel like I”ve become his prey.

”Olivia,” he purrs my name, finally standing from behind the desk. I remain still, barely breathing, my feet rooted to the spot as he stalks toward me. His finger curls beneath my chin and he tilts my face up to keep his eyes on mine. He has over a foot on me in height, and if he hadn”t tipped my chin up, my eyes would have been level with his chest.

I can”t breathe with him so close, his scent invades my senses, a mix of citrus and spice and despite the sheer size of him, his hand on my chin is gentle, the rough callouses on his fingers scratching my skin.

He leans in, close enough I feel his breath fan across my lips.

That grin stretches higher, something dangerous flashing in his eyes as he whispers in a voice barely louder than the crackle of the fire. ”Welcome home.”