Chapter 4 Her #2
“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, I have to 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 says sure will 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?”
Gotcha. I knew you remembered me, love. “I really do ride. My bike’s out back if you want to see.”
“Thanks, but I’ll have to pass. I’m actually quite busy.”
“No time to reminisce about the past?” I ask, concealing my desire with a lighthearted tease.
“None,” is her flat response. “So if you’ll excuse me—”
Fuck, no. I’m not letting her get away so soon. I match her step, blocking her before she can detour around me, continuing on her hunt.
She bites the corner of her mouth.
I nearly cream my pants.
That should’ve been the warning sign. I was already in too deep, just from one night that left with me addicted to the promise of a woman I couldn’t have.
Now you’re telling me that I can? I’m not some horny teen who can’t control myself.
I’m a grown man who’s used to women throwing themselves at him.
And then there’s her. The woman who didn’t offer me shit, but took it—and now she asked me to marry her… marry her… and she’s ready to move on before I even have the chance to answer her.
She flashes me an annoyed grimace, then moves quickly again, her heels clacking against the shiny wood floor.
I block her again, running my fingers through my hair, giving her a rakish look that’s won me hundreds of hearts. “By the way, I’m not.”
Her grimace becomes a frown. “Not going to marry me?”
“Not married already.”
She nods.
I reach down, taking her hand in mine before she can snatch it back. Bringing it to my lips, I kiss the top of her hand. “Yet.”
She sucks in a breath. “Oh. Okay.”
“What do you say, love? We at the point for names yet?”
Her pretty brown eyes glaze over. For a moment, she’s stunned in the center of the Court, the overhead light shining down on her. I’ve blocked out the Owed. Blocked out the Used. Right now, it’s just me and—
“Annaliese,” she says breathlessly. “My name is Annaliese Crawford.”
“Sebastien Reynolds,” I answer, emphasizing the French pronunciation of my first name in a way I usually don’t bother doing unless I’m trying to impress a chick. “But you can call me Bas. All my friends do.”
“We’re not friends.”
Not quite the reaction I expected. Most everybody in town, if they don’t already know who I am, have at least heard of me. I don’t know if Annaliese has or not, but there’s no recognition past looking at me and seeing the man who fucked her.
Just in case, why not a little reminder?
I lean toward Annaliese, whispering straight in her ear. “I’m glad. I don’t fuck my friends.”
She gulps. I’m close enough to notice, and I take advantage of rattling her by doing it again. I kissed her hand before. Now I brush a kiss against the top shell of her ear.
She shudders.
I pull away. “Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, I’ll marry you.”
Her lips part, mouth falling open just enough to give me a sudden fantasy of guiding my brunette beauty to the floor before feeding my cock past those puffy pink lips. I bet it would feel amazing.
If she’s my wife, I might find out.
I already know she’s attracted to me. I know she’s not poisoned against the black sheep of Harmony Heights otherwise she would’ve heard my name and bolted. I know that there isn’t anything I won’t do to fuck her again and see if it was as magical as the first time.
And I know that, if she’s desperate enough to agree, she must be in such a shitty situation, she needs my help.
Call me a soft touch. Call me a manipulative bastard. I’m both, and I lift my hand, rubbing my thumb along the edge of her jaw.
“What do you say, love? You and me… we doing this?”
“Just for a year,” she says. “That’s all I need. After that…” Her eyes clear. She jerks her head away from my hand. “You do understand that I just want a marriage of convenience? I’ll do whatever it is you require of a wife, but this is more of a, like, business arrangement?”
If that’s what she wants to call it. “You need a husband. I don’t have a wife. You obviously need help. And me… what can I say? I’m a helpful guy.”
I’m going to burn in Hell, too, but I’ve already resigned myself to that.
“What do you think, Annaliese?” I try not to let my sudden eagerness show as I repeat the same four words that I said to her the first night we met: “Come home with me.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Funny, I think it’s an excellent idea. Unless you’re backing out?”
She shakes her head. “No. I… if you’ll do it, I accept. We’ll have to make an agreement… lay out the rules, the expectations… but I won’t mind marrying you.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Annaliese disregards my wry response. “There’s so much I have to do. I… okay. I didn’t expect this to be as easy as it was. Sorry. I’m a little shell-shocked.”
“I have a tendency to cause that reaction. That’s something you’ll have to get used to as my wife.”
She disregards that tease, too. “Tomorrow,” she blurts out. “We can meet tomorrow.”
And give her a chance to chicken out? I don’t think I like that idea.
However, when the alternative is picking her up, carrying her out of the Court, plopping her on my bike and whisking her away to my place, I can’t see what else I can do but hope like hell that she actually goes through with it.
Even if she doesn’t, I have a name now. I know that she’s from Harmony Heights, too.
She won’t escape me again.
Just in case, I hold out my hand to her. When she looks puzzled, I say, “Give me your phone. I’ll put my number in it. You call me and we make this thing happen. You got that, Annaliese?”
“Um. Yeah. Yes, of course. That’s a good idea.
Thank you.” She reaches into the small clutch purse she has tucked under her arm.
The club’s too dim to activate facial recognition to unlock her screen.
Flustered, she enters in the six numbers to her passcode—3-4-0-1-2-6 because I’m a bastard and I sure as fuck commit that to memory instantly despite my minor buzz—before holding it out to me.
I enter my number and my name just like this: HUBBY. I show it to her, smirking when her pink cheeks go a little pale. She doesn’t say anything at first, simply slipping it back into her purse.
Only then does she tell me in a much softer, subdued tone, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“I’ll be waiting, love.”
For a moment, she stands there, adorably awkward, almost like she doesn’t know what to do. That’s easy. I duck my head, stealing a quick kiss before I run my hand possessively over her shoulder.
That breaks the spell. With another royal shake and a straight back, she turns on her heel before walking away from me.
This time, I feel a whole lot better about letting her.
Now if only I can say the same about how to explain what just happened to Dallas.