Brutal Prince Bonus Scene (Brutal Birthright, #1.5)(26)

“Get it off, then,” I say grumpily.

With one quick jerk, the aesthetician rips off the strip, leaving another stripe of smooth pink skin.

I shriek and let out a string of expletives, some English and some Italian. The aesthetician doesn’t even flinch. I’m sure she’s heard it all.

“Alright, that’s enough!” I say.

“You can’t leave it like that,” she says, wrinkling her nose.

Cazzo! I’ve got about two-thirds of my pussy waxed, with little patches of hair in odd places. It does look fucking awful. I don’t care for Callum’s sake, but I don’t want to have to look at that for weeks until it grows out again.

I can’t fucking believe his nerve, booking a bikini wax along with everything else. He thinks he owns my pussy already? He thinks he gets to decide how it looks?

I should wait until he’s sleeping, then slap hot wax on his balls. Give him a taste of his own medicine.

Grimly, I say, “Fine. Finish it off.”

It takes three more strips and a whole lot more swearing to get off the remaining hair. When they’re finished, I’m completely bald, the cool air touching me as it never has before.

It’s fucking humiliating. It’s . . . whatever the feminine version of “emasculating” would be. I’m like Sampson. Callum stole my hair and stripped me of my power.

I’m going to get back at him for this, that conniving, perverted fuck. He thinks he can wax my pussy without consent? He doesn’t even know what he’s starting.

The aestheticians go back to massaging me, but I’m fucking fuming.

I’m already planning all the ways I’m going to make Callum’s life a living hell.





10





Callum





It’s my wedding day.

It’s nothing like I pictured, but then, I never spent much time picturing getting married. I expected it to happen eventually, but I never really gave a shit about it.

I’ve dated plenty of women—when it was convenient. I’ve always had my own plans, my own goals. Any woman had to fit in with that, or I’d cut her loose the minute she became more trouble than she was worth.

In fact, I was dating someone when my father arranged this whole thing with the Gallos. Charlotte Harper and I had been together about three months. As soon as I found out that I was “engaged,” I called her to break it off. And I felt . . . nothing. I didn’t really care if I saw Charlotte again or not. There’s nothing wrong with her—she’s pretty, accomplished, well-connected. But when I break up with a woman, I feel the same as when I throw away an old pair of shoes. I know I’ll find a new one soon enough.

This time the new one is Aida Gallo. And I’m supposed to love, cherish, and protect her until the end of her days. I’m not sure I can do any of those things, except maybe keep her safe.

Here’s one thing I do know: I’m not going to put up with her fucking nonsense once we’re married. It’s like my father says: she needs to be trained. I’m not going to have some wild, disobedient wife. She will learn to obey me, one way or another. Even if I have to grind her down to powder under my feet.

I smirk a little, thinking about her “spa day” yesterday. The point of that, obviously, was to get her ready for tonight. I’m supposed to consummate the marriage, and I’m not fucking some messy little ragamuffin in flip flops and jean shorts. I expect her to be properly groomed, from head to toe.

I love the idea of her being primped and cleaned and waxed to my specifications. Like a little doll, built just the way I like it.

I’ve already showered and shaved, so now it’s time to put on my tux. But when I check the hook in the closet where I expect it to be hung, there’s nothing there.

I call down to Marta, one of our house staff.

“Where’s my tux?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Griffin,” she says nervously. “I went to the shop to pick it up like you said, but they told me the order had been cancelled. A box was shipped here instead, from Ms. Gallo.”

“A box?”

“Yes, shall I bring it up?”

I wait impatiently in the doorway while Marta jogs up the stairs, a large, square garment box in her hands.

What the hell is this? Why is Aida fucking with my tux?

“Leave it,” I say to Marta. She sets the box down gingerly on my couch.

I wait until she’s gone, then I open it up.

On top is an envelope, with the messy handwriting I can only assume belongs to my fiancée. I rip it open, pulling out a note:

Dearest betrothed,

It was so kind of you to see to all my pre-wedding grooming yesterday. What a stimulating and unexpected experience it was!

I’ve decided to return the favor with a gift of my own—a little piece of my culture for your wedding day.

I’m sure you’ll do me the honor of wearing this for our wedding ceremony. I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly say my vows without this reminder of home.



Forever yours,

Aida





I can’t help snickering at her description of the spa. But my smile freezes on my face when I pull apart the tissue paper and see the tux she’s expecting me to wear.

It looks like a fucking clown suit. Made of shiny brown satin, it’s covered in garish embroidery on the shoulders, lapels, and even the back of the jacket. It’s a three-piece suit complete with vest, not to mention a lace pocket square and cravat. The only person I can picture wearing this is Liberace.