Brutal Prince Bonus Scene (Brutal Birthright, #1.5)(34)

And he’s got some skills, too. He doesn’t fuck like a robot. He can be gentle, he can be rough, and above all, he’s extremely perceptive. He reads me like a book.

So I wouldn’t mind exploring this whole married sex thing a little further. But he’s been too busy—or avoiding me.

Of course, when he does finally need my help, he asks in the most obnoxious way possible, which is not asking at all.

He corners me in the kitchen, where I’m trying to toast a bagel. The Griffins’ toaster keeps popping it back up again, because it probably hasn’t been used in ten years since I’m the only one in this house familiar with the concept of carbs.

“I have a fundraiser tonight,” Callum says. “Be ready at seven.”

“Sorry,” I say, jamming down the lever on the toaster and holding it in place, “I’ve already got plans.”

“Doing what?”

“Lord of the Rings marathon. All three movies, extended version. I won’t be finished until tomorrow around noon.”

The toaster makes an angry clicking sound, but I hold the lever in place, determined to brown my bagel even if it makes the machine explode.

“Very funny,” Callum says, narrowing his pale blue eyes at me. “Seven o’clock, and make sure you’re not late. I expect proper hair and makeup. I’ve already laid a dress out on the bed.”

I let the bagel pop up, nicely browned at last. I start spreading a nice thick layer of cream cheese, glomming on even more when I see Callum’s expression of disgust.

“Do you have my lines ready for me, too?” I ask him. “Maybe you should just hang a placard around my neck, with whatever you expect me to say.”

I take a huge bite of my bagel, enjoying it all the more because I know Callum probably hasn’t let himself eat one in years.

“If you could refrain from cursing every third word, that would be a start,” he says, his fingers twitching involuntarily. I’m pretty sure he’s dying to snatch the bagel out of my mouth. He’s holding back because he doesn’t want to antagonize me before the fundraiser.

“I’ll damn well try, sweetheart,” I say around a mouthful of bagel.

He glares at me and stalks off, leaving me alone in the kitchen. Well, not totally alone—I still have plenty of snacks.

I make a bowl of popcorn so I can at least start The Fellowship of the Ring.

As I head toward the theater room, I see Riona coming from the opposite direction, carrying a stack of folders. She looks flustered and stressed, as per usual. I don’t know why she’s always knocking herself out trying to impress these people—it’s pretty clear that her parents see Callum as the star of the family, and her as a supporting character at best. Yet the more they push her to the side, the harder she fights for them to notice her. Watching it bums me out.

Not that I have much sympathy. Riona was a grade-A bitch at school. Queen of the mean girls. The only reason I didn’t get more shit from her is because I was younger and therefore beneath her notice.

That’s pretty much how she acts having to live in the same house with me. So I can’t resist poking at her now and then.

“You wanna join me?” I ask her, holding up the popcorn bowl. “I’m about to watch Lord of the Rings. Ever seen it? There’re some characters I think you might really identify with.”

Specifically, the ones that eat human flesh and are born out of muddy egg sacs.

Riona gives a dramatic sigh, annoyed that I’m even talking to her.

“No,” she says. “I don’t want to watch a movie at three o’clock in the afternoon, because I’m not a fucking child. I have work to do.”

“Right,” I say, nodding my head. “I forgot that you’re the secretary for your whole family. Really important stuff.”

“I’m a lawyer,” Riona says with icy dignity.

“Oh.” I give a fake grimace. “Sorry about that. Well don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody.”

Riona shifts the heavy folders against one hip, cocking her head to the side so she can look me up and down with that patented mean-girl stare.

“That’s right,” she says softly. “Everything is a joke to you. You get traded like a baseball card and you don’t care, right? You don’t care that your family abandoned you. That they sold you to us.”

That puts a sick little knot in my stomach, but I’m not going to let Riona see it. I force myself to keep smiling and even pop a piece of popcorn into my mouth. It feels as dry as cardboard against my tongue.

“At least I’m a Topps Mickey Mantle,” I tell her. “I doubt you’d be an ‘86 Jose Canseco.”

Riona stares at me, shaking her head.

“You are so fucking weird,” she says.

Eh . . . that’s probably true.

She shoves past me, hurrying down the hallway.

I head into the theater, settling down in my favorite seat in the middle row.

Riona’s a bitch. Her opinion means less than nothing to me.

But it keeps bothering at me, all the same. I can’t even pay attention to the dulcet tones of Sir Ian McKellen, my favorite old-man crush.

The truth is, I do feel abandoned. I miss my father. I miss my brothers. I miss my own house, which was old and shabby and stuffed with ancient furniture, but I knew every bit of it. It was safe and comfortable, with memories attached to every surface.