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Not one of them has ever phased me, or even warranted a second thought from me. But when it comes to Tempest, I can’t seem to hold to my usual modus operandum of not giving a shit. With her, in fact, it’s the opposite.
I can’t stop thinking about her.
Not in a moony, sappy way. Fuck no. But I can’t stop fantasizing about her—her and those deep hazel-green eyes. The snidely pursed lips. The whole princess-of-darkness, Marilyn Manson groupie vibe dripping off of her shoulders like a toxin.
I haven’t the slightest idea why anything about this woman is hitting me like this. Worse, I have no idea how to flush it out of my system.
It’s been two days since she stormed out of Charles’ office and barreled into my chest.
I’ve stroked my cock until cum exploded from the swollen head no less than three times since then. And each of those times, it was black eyeliner, sneery, pouty lips, and stabby, angry eyes I was picturing.
Tempest. Otherwise known as the niece of the woman—girl—I’m supposed to marry.
This is…highly problematic.
A knock at the study door pulls my attention.
“Yes?”
The door opens, and Lorenzo, my head of security, pokes his head in.
“She’s here, Mr. Sartorre.”
My lips thin to a grimace.
Perfect timing.
“Okay. You can escort them in.”
Lorenzo’s brow furrows. “She’s actually alone, sir.”
Interesting. Part of me wonders for half a second if Charles sending Maeve on her own is some sort of power move. But then I realize I don’t really give a shit if it is or not. Maeve’shere, which means I can sign this fucking blood marker and get it over with.
“Well, then escort?—”
“She, uh…” Lorenzo looks unsure if he’s worried or amused to tell me. “She won’t get out of the car, sir. Point blank refused.”
I exhale with a groan, reaching up to pinch the bridge of my nose. Right. I forgot I’m marrying an almost literal child.
“Fuck it,” I sigh, rising from my chair and crossing to my desk. I punch in the code for the built-in safe underneath and pull out the blood marker, the Dickensian quill, and the small silver disk with the two wells and two little pinpricks set into it. With Lorenzo watching, I stab my thumb over one side of the disk, spilling my blood into the little well before dipping the quill into it.
I sign quickly, then press my bloody thumbprint to the page.
So be it. My club is everything, and I’ll do anything to keep it.
I’ve got a dark glare etched into my face as I storm out of the front door of my estate. There’s a black SUV parked on the white stone driveway, the engine running. My eyes narrow at my own reflection in the tinted black windows. I’m about to bang on the glass with my knuckles so we get this shit over with when the back seat window cracks open just a few inches.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
“Are we seriously doing it like this?” I mutter through clenched teeth.
No response from inside the car.
“Maeve,” I growl. “Understand that neither of us wants this, but that doesn’t mean it’s not happ?—”
A small, dainty hand pokes through the crack in the window, palm up. My back teeth grind.
“Look, when we’re married, you can hide all you want,” I mutter. “So long as you smile and obey me in public, and at the wedding. Do we understand each other?”
