The Last Will Marriage

Prologue

ARI

Valentine’s Day fucking sucked when you were in love with your best friend.

The candy hearts, the love notes, the trinkets. All those sickeningly sweet, in-love couples posting their pictures and writing sonnets to each other in their captions. Gooey and smushy and so pathetically cheesy.

It’s all so gross.

I want it so bad.

And I hate myself for wanting it with him.

My best friend.

Dangerously good-looking with his tall frame, toned hockey muscles, golden locks, and blue-green eyes I could stare into for hours. Combined with his insane ego and silver tongue, most girls dropped their panties before they even said hello.

Believe me, I saw it happen. One time, this girl walked up to him, dropped her underwear, and threw it in his face like the smell of it would be so irresistible he would tear her ass up right there on the street.

I think he made it to the next alleyway before fucking her against the nearest dumpster.

Goddamn, I wanted to be her. Dumpster girl.

My wet dreams were unmatched.

Between being friend-zoned since I knew what a crush was and being the illegitimate daughter of a traitor to The Order—an elite secret society his family was in charge of—I never really stood a chance.

In fact, I was pretty sure I was even further back on the list of potential candidates than the dumpster they fucked next to.

God, to be that dumpster, watching his cock shuttle in and out of her, listening to his grunts and groans. I’d expel my trash right there on the sidewalk.

Bringing a new visual to cum dump since 2022, that’s me.

The only real reason I was living under this roof was because of Brodie’s mother.

She always wanted a daughter but was unable to have more children after Brodie was born.

Probably didn’t want to screw Anthony anymore.

I wouldn’t blame her. But despite my questionable parentage, Elena took me in and raised me as her own.

And when she died, Anthony kept me, even after he remarried.

It’s not like I haven’t tried to date other people. I have, but it’s like there is a glaring neon sign that says ‘Do Not Touch’ plastered across my ass. The poor suckers who seem to miss it, well, they never stood a chance.

I distinctly remember dressing up last Valentine’s Day for a date with Dylan Warner.

He took me to a nice little restaurant on the dock, got us a table by the water, with candles and everything.

Sure, he had the same personality as the dead fish that happened to be floating by during our appetizer course, but I liked him enough.

Until Brodie came charging down the dock, picked Dylan up by the suspenders, and threw him into the water.

I watched him land right on top of that fish.

So, sputtering out dead fish water and angry as a wet cat, he yelled loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear, “What the absolute fuck, Brodie!?”

To which Brodie responded, “You know the rules. Stay away from her.” I had never heard his voice sound so sour.

He then glared at everyone in the restaurant like he was warning them off as well.

Brodie proceeded to take my hand and drive me to my favorite diner, which was decked out in pink garland and paper hearts for the holiday.

I kind of like to think that was our first date, but nothing ever came of it. He just told me that Dylan was scum and I could do better. I didn’t mention that no one was going to ask me out once word got out about Dylan.

So I was back to envying dumpster girl.

Which is why it makes complete sense that on Valentine’s Day this year, I am standing in the garden behind our house, staring into his bedroom window, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

Somebody save my sanity.

After a few hours and an embarrassing conversation with myself, I finally see him through his bedroom window.

Hands in his pockets and a slight furrow of his brow as he scans the backyard.

I don’t think he can see me from my spot, but I move behind the trellis in the hope he doesn’t notice me, and I can look my fill.

Brodie’s button-up shirt hangs open. His broad tattooed chest and the rough ridges of his abs are made prominent by the light in his room.

His belt is loose, and the top button of his pants is already undone.

The light dusting of hair just beneath his belly button, trailing down past the top of his boxers, makes my mouth water.

The bulge beneath is apparent even from here.

If I’m lucky, maybe he will remove his boxers while standing in front of the paned glass, and I can watch.

What the hell was wrong with me?

I clench my thighs together to try soothing some of the ache beginning to form between my legs. I want him. Have wanted him for as long as I can remember.

Before I can even comprehend what I’m doing, my hand is moving to try to relieve some of the pressure building inside me. Rubbing the sensitive place that is screaming for attention and relief.

Hopefully, I charged my vibrator so I can put it to good use tonight. There is nothing worse than the buzz dying before you finish. And screw the manual way all the way to hell.

Speaking of vibrations, my phone vibrates in my pocket, a piercing sound given the silence around me. Shit. A blush blooms on my cheeks as I realize I’m literally touching myself in the garden, thinking of my best friend.

I tap the screen, allowing the light to fill the surrounding space.

Brodie:

I see you.

My hands shake as I glance up at the window again.

Brodie is standing on the other side of the glass, gazing down at me. He arches an eyebrow when he sees me look up and crooks a finger in a silent demand.

Come.

Nerves swirl in my gut, making it hard to breathe.

Me:

Why.

Brodie:

Because I fucking said so.

When I don’t respond, he types something else out and hits send.

Brodie:

Don’t you want to see what I got you for Valentine’s Day?

Me:

You always said it was a useless holiday.

Brodie:

Fine, I’ll just give your gift to somebody else then.

Rolling my eyes, I stalk back inside.

I tiptoe up the dark, winding staircase, running my fingertips along the wall of the hallway as I feel my way to the familiar destination. A room I spent more time in than my own. I always wanted to be around him, near him, as close as I could get. Still the case to this day.

His door swings open without waiting for my knock, and his hand goes straight to my neck, yanking me into the room as he presses me up against his hard body. Brodie doesn’t say a word, just watches like he can see through me.

I blush furiously as I wait him out. The silence grows thick around us.

Brodie’s bedroom is the size of a small apartment.

Dark wood furnishings and black décor fill the space.

Subtle undertones of deep red in the throw pillows and blankets add a touch of color.

He once told me he would decorate his room with the blood of his enemies if he could, but it was too much of a biohazard, so he settled for red accents.

Lovely.

Shelves span across the walls, filled with books he never read and trophies from his most gruesome wins on the ice.

Like a sick shrine to those he fucked up the most, still reveling in the despair he has caused even years later.

There were expectations for a hockey captain from the Araneae bloodline, or so he said after a particularly bloody fight.

A large leather chair sits next to the four-poster bed, which takes up almost half the room. Silk sheets adorn it, only the best for his heir-ness.

Brodie audibly huffs and releases me, slamming the door behind us.

He watches me carefully, his eyes slowly moving up my body, examining me, until they meet mine. “Come here, Ari.” He lifts his hand, and that’s when I notice the simple velvet box wrapped with a red bow resting on his palm.

I give him a sly smile and decide to sass him a bit to break the sudden tension between us. “Is this for me?”

“Open the box, Arianna,” Brodie says as he places the box in my palm. “Did you think all these years I didn’t know what you want?” He smirks and grabs my wrist, rubbing his thumb against my skin, causing my body to heat with a sudden awareness.

“Ari, you are the opposite of subtle,” he says, his eyes twinkling with unsaid humor.

My cheeks heat, and I feel a sudden wave of embarrassment and rage battle within me. “Are you fucking kidding me, Brod—” Hard lips crash into mine, interrupting the start of my rant.

This kiss is an explosion of stars on a starless night. An irreparable change shifting my center of gravity. A kiss that shatters my entire soul.

A low growl escapes him as he tilts my head up to give himself more control, almost lifting me off the ground with the force behind it.

Like the man himself, his lips are unrelenting and demanding. Taking everything from me, including the oxygen in my lungs. I press myself into him to get as close as humanly possible. I'm lost in the kiss, not willing to separate from him long enough to ask what changed.

Brodie breaks the kiss without loosening his hold on me. I suck in air as he rests his forehead against mine. “Of course, you would be cursing me right before I finally stole our first kiss.” He chuckles darkly. That damn chuckle almost brings me to my knees.

My mind sticks on the word first. First, meaning there will be more.

There better be more because now that I’ve had a taste, I know I will crave more of him.

“My first kiss.” I avert my gaze, and I can’t help the blush that forms on my cheeks. Eighteen years old and this was my first kiss. But I was never going to settle for the dead fish when a lethal prince was always within arm’s reach.

“What did you just say?” His eyes take on a feral gleam.

Brushing my lips over his, I say softly, “My first kiss. It was always yours to take.”

His head falls back, and the sound that leaves him is sinful. “Ari. I’m going to ruin you,” Brodie snarls against my lips.

I kiss down his neck and whisper against his skin, “You already have.”