Chapter 13
Kane
What in the actual fuck?
I glance around my room as Daniil and a couple of other guys pile boxes and boxes of shit into my master bedroom and bathroom.
“She only had a bedroom and bathroom at her brother’s place. How the hell does she even have this much stuff?”
Daniil shrugs. “The woman is a shopper, and she had two rooms at her brother’s. One for her to sleep in and the other for her wardrobe. Wait until you see all her makeup and shit.”
“She needs to find something else to do with her time,” I mutter as I walk out of my room so they can finish bringing in her boxes.
“Oh, you’re home,” Brielle says, sauntering into the house. “Have they finished bringing my stuff in?”
“No, it will probably take them the entire day with all the shit you have. You know you have a problem, right?”
“If you don’t like it, I can live elsewhere.” She shrugs smugly.
Speaking of which …
“I thought you wanted your own room, but Daniil just spent an hour moving all your stuff from the guest room to the master.”
“Changed my mind. Your closet is bigger”—she steps into my space and runs her hands along my biceps—“and your bathroom is nice. Feel free to move to the guest room if you wish.”
Ahh, so this is the game she’s playing. Torture me in my own home until I’ve had enough and I regret my decision to force her to marry me.
What she doesn’t realize is that I lived with my mom for the past several years since my father was killed, and since she had to keep a low profile, she resorted to online shopping, filling the house up with too much random shit.
“I’m good,” I tell her. “Since we didn’t make it to dinner last night, I’ve rescheduled for brunch this afternoon, and I’d appreciate you accompanying me.”
“Are you asking or demanding?” she asks.
“Depends on what your answer is.”
She sighs. “Whatever. I don’t have anything else going on anyway. I already got my workout in.”
I drag my gaze from her face down her body and notice she’s still in her workout attire—a tiny light-blue sports bra that shows off the swell of her tits and matching leggings that wrap around her thighs and ass like cling wrap. The woman is fucking gorgeous, but more than that, she’s in shape.
“How often do you work out?”
“Every day.”
“Damn, that’s commitment.”
“I have nothing else to do.” She shrugs. “Might as well do something that benefits my health.”
That’s the second time she’s insinuated that she’s bored.
“Didn’t you go to college?”
Her shoulders tense. “Yeah. So?”
“Did you graduate?”
I should know this, but her education wasn’t really a priority when I was doing my research on the Antonov family.
“Yes,” she spits. “With a degree in accounting, and I got my MBA online as well while I was in Russia. I also took and passed the CPA exam when I returned to the States. Any other questions?”
“No need to get defensive,” I say, shocked by her choice of degree.
“Brielle,” Daniil calls out. “Do you want your jeans hanging or folded?”
“Hanging,” she replies with a huff. “Jesus, what crazy person folds their jeans?”
She disappears upstairs to no doubt redo everything they’ve done while I’m left wondering about the conundrum that is my future wife, starting with why a woman with her degree isn’t working for her family’s business.
Choosing to give her some space, I head to my office to get some work done and then to the private gym I had built in my house to get a workout in. When time has run out and I have to shower and get ready for brunch, I head upstairs.
When I walk into the bedroom, all the boxes are gone, and I think maybe I was wrong and she wasn’t trying to play games, until I open the closet door and find her shit has overtaken the entire room.
Dresses, skirts, shirts, jeans take up every inch of space aside from the corner, where she’s pushed all my clothes together.
Above and below the hanging racks are hundreds of pairs of shoes—from heels to sandals to workout shoes. I count at least three dozen pairs of tennis shoes. Who the fuck needs this many pairs of workout shoes? Most of them don’t even look like they’ve been touched.
I close the door and walk into the bathroom so I can shower, only to stop in my tracks when I find shit all over the counters. Lotions, makeup, hair products. It looks like a fucking Sephora in my bathroom.
I open the cabinet, ready to shove it all underneath, only to find it’s full of her shit. The woman isn’t just a shopper. She’s addicted to shopping. Nobody needs this much stuff.
“Excuse me,” Brielle hisses, poking her head out of the shower, which I didn’t even notice was running, too distracted by my bathroom being overrun with crap. “Have you ever heard of personal space?”
Since my shower is doorless, with only a glass pane separating her from me, I have the perfect view of everything from the waist up. Her hair is covered in product, her face free of all makeup. Her body is wet, water sluicing down her overheated flesh, and her nipples are erect from the cool air.
Every time I’ve seen her, she’s always been put together. Even when she works out, she has some kind of makeup on. But right here, she’s stripped down, all natural, and she’s never looked sexier.
I take a step forward, my cock guiding my movements, but I’m stopped when she says, “Don’t even think about it. I meant it—what happened this morning changes nothing and it won’t be happening again.”
My future wife clearly likes to play games, and while I’m not usually one to do so, playing with her seems like it could be fun.
“That’s fine,” I say, stripping out of my clothes.
Since the sight of her naked body has my cock hard, it springs out, bobbing and hitting my torso.
“Kane, what are you doing?” she accuses.
“Showering.” I step into the shower behind her.
It’s a large area that could easily fit several people, but I still purposely brush my front against her back, earning a hiss from her.
“Since we’re sharing a bathroom and I need to get ready for brunch, I don’t see any reason why we can’t share a shower.”
She turns and glares my way, her arms crossing over her chest to hide her pert nipples, only making her perfect tits even more enticing.
The water is still dripping down her body, thanks to the ceiling showerheads, and my eyes can’t help but follow the drops as they slide down her toned belly and neatly trimmed pussy, disappearing between the apex of her thighs.
They clench in want, and I chuckle at how turned on she is.
“Sure,” she murmurs sarcastically. “Feel free to impose on my personal space. It is your home after all.”
The woman has made it her mission to hate me, but no matter what she does, what she says, her actions speak for themselves, and they’re making it clear just how attracted she is to me.
“It’s now our home,” I correct her. “And I’ll be quick.”
“This place will never be my home,” she mutters.
I go out of my way to ignore her the rest of the time we’re in the shower, soaping up my body and washing my hair. I make a show of washing my dick and balls, and the entire time, I can feel her eyes on me even though she pretends like she’s not watching me.
I finish before her and slide past her, once again rubbing my body against hers. She sucks in a harsh breath, and I smile to myself.
My future wife might like to play games, but she has no idea just how competitive I am. Challenge accepted.
All the clothes the woman owns, and she’s wearing a pair of cutoff jean shorts and a tank top that reads Save a horse, Ride a cowboy, paired with brown cowboy boots.
I haven’t the slightest clue why she owns an outfit like this, but regardless of her name, the country club won’t let her in. Which is precisely why she did this.
Another fucking game.
She’s standing in the foyer, waiting for my response—I either tell her to change, to which she’ll refuse, or leave without her, and she’ll get out of this business meeting.
But she’s not going to get either from me.
“You look beautiful,” I tell her, plastering a smile on my face.
It’s not a lie. She could wear a brown paper bag, and she’d look beautiful.
“Is there a particular cowboy I should be worried about?”
I arch a brow playfully, and she furrows hers, confused as to why I’m not reacting the way she expected.
“Just remember what I threatened after the bar incident.”
I smirk and grab my keys out of the bowl, then head out to the garage. On the way, I text Malcolm Johnson that there’s been a change of plans. He and I go way back. We both attended the University of Miami and were roommates for the last two years of college.
Kane
My future wife is playing games. Country club is out. Let’s go to The Terrace.
Malcolm and I co-own The Terrace, so while it does have a dress code, we won’t be kicked out for her not adhering to it.
“Umm, where are we going?” Brielle asks when I head south instead of west toward the country club.
“To brunch with a business associate of mine. His name is Malcolm Johnson and his wife—”
“Malcolm Johnson, the NFL player?” She gasps.
“Yep, we went to U of M together, and his wife is a good friend of mine as well.”
Brielle peers down at her outfit and cringes, and I almost consider turning around so she can change, but she made her bed, and now she’s gonna lie in it.
Twenty minutes later, we arrive at The Terrace, and Malcolm and his wife, Genevieve, are standing by the valet, waiting for us.
Brielle takes one look at how elegant Genevieve looks and glances at me. I quirk a brow, waiting for her to admit she fucked up, but instead, she inhales deeply, shakes her head, and steps out of the car.
Malcolm immediately notices Brielle’s outfit and contains his smirk, but Genevieve can’t hide her confusion.
“Mal, Viv,” I say, giving each of them a hug. “I’d like you to meet my girlfriend, Brielle Antonova. Brielle, these are my friends, Malcolm and Genevieve Johnson.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Brielle says sheepishly. “I did a project in college on MK Holdings. A billionaire by the age of twenty-two.”
She shakes her head in awe, and it takes everything in me not to snort out a laugh. Because my wife is fangirling over my best friend—not because he used to play professional football, but because of his business decisions. Could she be any more fucking perfect?
When the hostess clears her throat because we’re standing in the doorway, Brielle blushes and takes a step back, nearly bumping into me.
“Sorry,” she says. “It’s just that your portfolio is so inspiring, and I’m hoping to one day open a Pilates studio of my own. Your marketing plans and investments …”
What? How the hell did I not know that?
Of course you wouldn’t know that. The woman can barely stand being in the same room as you. She’s not going to willingly share her goals and dreams with you.
“You know,” Malcolm says with a small laugh, “MK Holdings isn’t all me.”
Brielle’s brows furrow, and Genevieve laughs.
“It’s half mine,” I tell my future wife with a smirk. “I’m the K in MK.”
Brielle’s eyes turn into saucers, and I chuckle as I slide my arm over her shoulders.
“It’s okay,” I whisper into her ear as I guide her into the restaurant. “We still have a lot to learn about each other. For instance, I had no idea you were so into cowboys,” I say to remind her how ridiculously dressed she is.
“Oh God,” Brielle gasps. “Wait. I can’t go in there.” She glances up at me and glares. “This is all your fault.”
“Mine?” I bark out a laugh. “Nah, that outfit was all you, Princess. Giddyup.”
Not wanting Brielle to be completely embarrassed, even though she deserves it, I have the hostess sit us in a private corner on the terrace that overlooks the Atlantic.
Brunch goes well, our topics flitting from business to personal.
Mal and Viv have moved up to northern Florida to be closer to her family, so I haven’t seen them in several months, and it’s nice to catch up with my friends.
“You’ll have to come back down for the wedding,” I tell them, taking the check and sliding my card inside.
“What? You’re getting married?” Genevieve gushes, glancing at Brielle’s hand.
While I’m close with them, nobody—besides Brielle’s family—knows that our marriage is a farce.
“Not yet,” I say, pulling Brielle into my arms. “But she’s the one—I can feel it.” I kiss her temple and inhale her vanilla scent. “And I fully plan to make her mine sooner rather than later.”
Genevieve, ever the romantic, sighs. “I never thought I’d see the day. You were always the perpetual bachelor.”
“Guess it was just a matter of finding the right woman.”
I tilt Brielle’s head back and look into her azure eyes, and I don’t know if it’s because she’s putting on an act, but for the first time since the night we spent together—before she knew who I was—she willingly brings her lips to mine.
Her tongue slips between my parted lips, and the moment I taste her sweetness, I get caught up in everything that is Brielle, wanting and craving more of her.
But I need to be careful because addiction is nothing to fuck with.
My dad was addicted to power.
My mom was addicted to my father.
And Enrique was addicted to revenge.
And look how those situations turned out.
My father is buried six feet under. My mother is heartbroken. And my brother’s body is nothing but ash. And if I let my addiction get the better of me, I’ll end up like the rest of my family.