Prologue #2
“Crisis and Crimson aren’t even married to our brothers yet, you jerk.”
Yeah, true, except for the part where both Viktor and Kaleb have been calling them my wife for literally months. So.
Since Morana is far from romantically adept, I forgive her the ignorance. “Isn’t it weird how almost all my brothers chose girls with names that start with C?”
“No.”
“And then the two youngest brothers are just out here…doing whatever…ignoring the trend.”
“Ew.”
Sighing pitifully, I murmur, “So, what I’m hearing is: I’m not invited to the tea place—with the amazing sandwiches—because I refuse to think of you as my sister?”
“Excellent summary, SparkNotes. Give the e-boy a prize.”
“I love your condescending attitude.”
“That, brother dear, is because you desperately require therapy.”
I did therapy. The entire year hiatus I took off from my job as a professional content creator after my parents died seven years ago consisted of bed rotting and virtual therapist calls.
I’m all healed up now, obviously. Even though Morana doesn’t act like it, it’s not mentally unwell to like a woman who’s grumpy—especially not when you’re grumpy, too.
I know about book tropes. It’s pretty sexist to suggest that when the woman’s the grump, the guy is so patient and kind for dealing with her, yet when the guy’s the grump, it’s just hot and she’s so lucky.
No one ever stops to realize that the guy who falls for the grump is thinking hot and I’m so lucky. Constantly. Twenty-four-seven.
If we wanted someone we felt we had to be patient and kind with, we’d pick a pretty little sunshine chick with low self-esteem. Shockingly, we didn’t do that because we don’t have to be patient or kind with someone ready and willing to stab us with a rusty knife at any moment.
There’s nothing more put-me-on-my-knees attractive than a woman who makes me beg.
So, news flash, readers. The guys in the books with the female grumps?
They’re utterly into that, think it’s hot, and are actually the lucky ones.
Read between the lines. You’ll find yes, thank you, another in every margin.
And you might even figure out that those precious little grumpy girls? They’re the patient and kind ones.
Because nine times out of ten, they’re vibing until their sorry, sappy male leads annoyingly wreck their peace.
Like I am.
With Morana.
Right now.
“Please may I come with you to the lovely sandwich haven?” I ask, following my darling grump out of my room as she tows my hamper toward the laundry room.
She grumbles, “Absolutely not.”
“Why? Is it because you hate me?”
“It is because you’d insist on calling it a date.”
Date. What a word.
And what a rude accusation.
I have never, ever, insisted on anything before in my life.
In case Morana doesn’t know, I simply do not possess the stamina for that.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and type date definition into my search engine, then I recite, “Date, a social or romantic appointment or engagement.” I pull my gaze off the screen and pin it on Morana’s back, watching the swish of her dark hair.
“Would you prefer I call it an appointment? I’m open to ‘engagement’ as well, but getting engaged on our first appointment would be a little fast, don’t you think? ”
“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?”
Monumentally. “Is this a maybe?”
“It’s, very clearly, a no.”
“On a scale of one to ten, how important is consent to you? Where one is not at all and ten is loads.”
Twisting, she regards me dryly, cute wrinkles between her brows.
Sorry. Not cute. What I meant was…
Hot.
“Zero, then?” I ask.
“Twelve thousand.”
“What a boring thing to say.” I cut my fingers through my shoulder-length hair.
“You think consent is boring?” she quips, practically repulsed.
I arch a brow at the silly lass. “You can’t expect me to believe I’m the only one who wants to be pushed into the wall and kissed in a fit of uncontrollable passion.”
“I am going to assume you’d only want that to happen with someone you’ve given consent to.”
I think for a moment. “Fair point.” I offer her my hands, palms open. “Behold. All the consent I have to provide. It is yours. Forever.” I point, at the wainscotting beside us. “And, look, a wall. I’m ready, mistress. Take me, I’m yours.”
Her head shakes; she keeps dragging my laundry hamper down the hall.
Stuffing my poor unpinned hands back in my pockets, I continue my survey. “How do you feel about stalking?”
“Kyran, no.”
“It’s a genuine question.”
“It’s one I really shouldn’t have to answer.
Being stalked is literally terrifying. And it’s a real problem.
And the statistics for the percentage of women who are stalked by the age of twenty are horrifying.
And…why am I explaining this to you? I already know you’re just being an idiot, not a real threat. ”
She’s explaining it to me because, despite her wittle nose scrunch and the assessment that I am “an idiot,” the woman quite likes interacting with me.
We have fun.
And I might be an idiot, but I’m not stupid.
If she just wanted to go off on one of the five Bachelor brothers for being a slob, she’d be breathing down Lukas’s neck. But, ever since he got back from his tour in September, she hasn’t.
Furthermore, I haven’t been in love with her this whole time, so it’s not like her nagging has been a direct response to my advances. She nagged first; I fell after.
Therefore, one can assume, I am special.
My survey proceeds. “Where’s the line between ‘stalking’ and ‘playful disregard for boundaries’?”
She blesses me with a withering look. “If you’re going to bombard me with stupid questions, the least you can do is carry this.”
I launch into action, hooking my hand in the rim and hiking the hamper up on my shoulder. “Took you long enough.”
Her eyes roll, roll, roll. “Just so you know, there is no such thing as playful disregard for boundaries, Kyran.”
“Agree to disagree.”
“This is not something you get to disagree on.”
I offer her the hint of a smile, and it stops her—cheeks reddening—in her tracks. As I continue toward the laundry room by myself, I repeat, “Agree to disagree.”