Chapter 13
TROY
Watching Tobias Ragg’s hand rest near Sage on the billiard table makes me want to break every finger, one by one.
He’s explaining the game of pool to her, even though it’s not the right table for it, leaning in close.
What’s worse is that she’s smiling at him.
To her credit, she keeps inching away. But she’s too damn polite.
She should shove that damn cue in his throat.
Instead, she stands there like a nervous little songbird, chirping away at him. It’s the most words I’ve heard her speak since she got here.
It’s my fault. When everyone moved to the den for drinks to celebrate our upcoming wedding—Ragg’s bloody idea—I wasn’t able to come up with a reason to refuse, not without coming across as a complete dick and screwing the interview.
But now my fingers are itching to go over there and slice that damn smirk off Ragg’s face.
If only I didn’t need him to write that damn piece about me first. A wedding announcement will make it even better.
It implies stability, legitimacy, and ties to established families. Even if Mundel disagrees.
I don’t give a damn what Mundel thinks. He works for me, not the other way around. He’s already made his excuses and left, shooting me a look that said, You’ve made your bed, now lie in it.
Bastard.
I pour another drink, watching Ragg rake his beady eyes over my fiancé, trying to pot a ball. She bites her lip in concentration, lines up the shot, and trips on her own feet. The ball rolls pathetically to the left.
Ragg laughs.
Sage bloody turns beetroot.
Fuck. I want to rip that laugh right out of his throat. But I can’t. My jaw aches from clenching so much. Why do I even care? She’s terrible at this. But it’s annoyingly adorable, if I’m being honest. The way she frowns at the table like it personally made her ball roll the wrong way….
I need another drink.
I down the whiskey and immediately pour another.
Ragg starts asking innocent-seeming questions about how we met, when we fell in love, probing for details. Sage lies smoothly, weaving a story about a chance encounter at her mother’s bakery, protecting my secrets without being asked, like I prepped her beforehand.
Good girl.
Of course, I didn’t, but she shoots a glance over at me, anyway, without Ragg noticing, as if seeking approval. My mouth curves despite myself. She’s good at this, covering for me, playing her part perfectly as though she’s on my side.
Like she’s already mine.
The thought leaves something hot and irritating in my chest, and I have to look away before I do something stupid…like go over there and drag her away from Ragg like a jealous soon-to-be-husband.
I could.
It would play the part perfectly, but then that would be admitting to everyone (me included) that she’s got to me, that she’s crawled under my damn skin.
I have to remind myself just how much I hate her. But then she laughs at something he says, suddenly smiling, all bright and genuine. For a moment, she looks relaxed, even happy. My fingers tighten around the glass of their own accord.
That’s the first time I’ve seen her laugh like that.
It’s probably because I’m a bastard who keeps threatening to throw her off my island. I’m the piece of work that devours her into dark-lit rooms and barks orders when she doesn’t do what I say. And I know every time she looks at me, she sees a monster.
She should.
I am one.
Ragg leans in closer, lowering his voice. I can’t hear what he’s saying anymore. Sage’s smile falters. Her shoulders tense.
What. The. Fuck. Did. He. Say?
Her laugh cuts off, and she steps back slightly, putting distance between them, but Ragg closes it. His hand settles on the small of her back a little too casually.
Touching what’s mine.
Red floods my vision.
There’s a loud crack. I look down. The glass in my hand has shattered on the bar, whiskey and broken glass pooling on the veined marble. But I don’t care. All I feel is the overwhelming urge to cross the room and break every bone in Ragg’s hand.
Fuck the article.
He’s dead.
I’m halfway across the room before I realize I’ve moved. Sage sees me coming. Her eyes widen, but not with fear, but something that makes her hazel orbs ignite and her cheeks flush pink. Making me hesitate to understand it. Ragg is still talking, oblivious, his hand still on what’s mine.
“Ragg.” My voice is ice. “The interview’s over.”
He turns, startled, a thin smile on his lips. “Already? But we haven’t had dinner—”
“I said it’s over.” I step between him and Sage, forcing him back. “Katherine will show you to your room. Helicopter leaves at dawn.”
He frowns, glancing at his watch. “It’s a little early, don’t you think—”
“Don’t you have an article to write?” My voice is dangerously quiet.
Ragg looks at Sage, then at me, and something in my expression must convince him. He smirks, nods stiffly, and then leaves.
As the door closes, I relish the moment of silence.
Ragg likes to talk; loves the sound of his own voice. It’s been grating on me since he first arrived. Sage is staring at me, still holding that damn cue stick like a lifeline.
I finally look at her. “What did he say to you?” The words come out harsher than I mean them to.
“Nothing. He just—”
“Tell me what he said.”
She blinks at me. “He asked if I was happy...about the marriage.” Her voice is hushed. “He then suggested that if I needed any help….”
My jaw clenches so hard it bloody hurts. “Help getting away from me?” I finish for her.
She nods.
Of course. Ragg would see what this looks like. That Sage is a trapped girl with a dangerous man, and that this wedding is merely an asset tied to a business deal, and nothing else. He would see it this way, because that’s exactly what it is.
“And what did you say?”
She stares at me for a few seconds. “I said I was here because I wanted to be.”
The words sink in, taking some of the anger blistering my insides with it.
“I see. You lied, did you?” My voice is rough.
“I wasn’t lying.”
Our eyes lock, and it feels like the storm outside is about to erupt. The rage is back, and it takes everything I have to keep it from spilling out right now.
“You should go to bed, Sage.”
“Are we…are we getting married then?” She asks it so innocently, like she’s asking about dinner.
“No.”
She flinches.
I let out a sigh. “I only said that because he’s writing an article to make me more appealing to investors.” It’s the truth, but why does it feel the exact opposite when I say it?
She gnaws her bottom lip. “So it’s like a fake marriage.”
“I wouldn’t say fake. There will be a prenup, a ceremony, and then a divorce. Not an annulment, since you’re the one who’s threatening that if I don’t marry you now that you’ve slept in my bed, the deal falls through,” I say gruffly.
It’s ludicrous, really. Richard Lovett could threaten what he likes.
That morality clause would never hold up in court.
So why am I going ahead with this ridiculous wedding?
But Sage looks upset at my answer, and I don’t try to ease her concerns.
If she wants to marry me, then all the pomp and ceremony is what she’s going to get.
Ragg will see through it otherwise.
Not if he lives.
“Oh. I see.”
She sets down the cue and walks past me, close enough that I catch that thorny lavender scent. I seize her wrist without thinking, and she stiffens. I should let her go. It’s late, and I have things to take care of now.
Instead, my thumb brushes over her pulse point. It’s racing.
“Hold on a moment. I’m not done yet.”
My words feel awkward in my mouth. I drag out the ring from my inside jacket pocket. It’s the one I swore I’d never give to anyone. But then I took it out of the safe this morning after breakfast, once I’d made my mind up that this marriage could have its uses.
I press it into her hand. Then I drop her wrist like her touch scorches me.
“Put that on. We’ll draw up terms in the morning.”
She stares at it. “This is—”
“My m-mother’s.” The admission costs me more than I’m expecting. I don’t stammer anymore. I got rid of that in prison. But once in a while, it slips out. Hell knows why. “Don’t read into it. It’s just a ring.”
Sage stares at it, looking as if it’s about to bite her. Slowly, cautiously, she slips it onto her ring finger, and the tightness in my shoulders, the weight in my heart, eases a touch. It fits perfectly. But then she keeps staring at it, trying to work out the symbol etched on it.
And that makes me irritable again.
Maybe I was a bit hasty in giving it to her. It has my mother’s Irish family crest on the emblem, but she can’t know what it is, not unless she digs deep.
“Now that you’re wearing my ring, don’t let anyone touch you like that again.” I hear myself say. “You’re mine now, understand?”
Her eyes widen.
“Ragg believed our little story. If you can keep up the act at the wedding, you might actually be useful.” The final nail in the coffin comes out before I can stop it. “Until this deal is done, at least. Don’t make me regret keeping you around.”
Her hope dies in her eyes. Good. She needs to understand what this is.
What is this? I don’t even know myself.
“I understand,” she says quietly, her lips thinning as she glances at the ring on her finger again.
“Now, go to bed,” I say it more softly this time. “It’s getting late. And that damn storm is coming.”
She stares at me for a long moment, then leaves without another word.
I’m left, standing there like an idiot, wondering when the hell I started lying to myself, and the knowledge that I just chose her over everything I’ve been working towards. Until my hand closes over the razor in my pocket.
Slicing Ragg to ribbons is going to feel like therapy.