Brutal Prince Bonus Scene (Brutal Birthright, #1.5)(76)

He gives a harsh, barking laugh.

“This place didn’t mean anything to him,” he says darkly. “I was the only one who cared about coming here.”

I’m very familiar with Oliver’s spoiled-yet-neglected only-child upbringing. He told me how jealous he was that I had brothers. He had no siblings, and no real friends either—just the schoolmates he was “supposed” to associate with. He told me how jealous he was that I had brothers. He never met my brothers, though. I couldn’t see them getting along.

“Well,” I say, trying to mollify him. “I’m glad I got to see it, finally.”

He turns to look at me, his eyes very dark in the dim light. His face looks mask-like. He’s gained probably thirty pounds since we dated, which has made his face wider and older-looking. More like his father’s. He’s still big and muscular—in fact, the extra weight makes it all the easier for him to overpower me, as evidenced by our short-lived struggle on the beach. I’m not sure how the fuck I’m going to get away from him when he’s stronger and faster than me.

“I wish you could have seen it how it used to be,” Oliver says. “With all the pictures and books. And couches. It’s alright, though. I brought this here, so we have somewhere to sit, at least.”

He sits down on the mattress, which creaks beneath his weight.

“Come on. Sit,” he says, patting the space beside him.

“Uh, actually, I’ve got to pee really bad,” I say.

It’s true. My bladder feels like it’s about to burst, especially after Oliver body-slammed me on the beach.

For a moment he stares at me suspiciously, like he doesn’t believe me. I shift my weight from my barefoot to the one with the shoe, not exaggerating my discomfort.

“The bathroom’s over here,” Oliver says at last, standing up again.

He leads me down the hall to a pretty little bathroom with wainscoting all over the walls and a shell-shaped sink. I’m sure there were nautical-themed towels and soap in here when the house was furnished.

When I try to close the door, Oliver stops it with one meaty hand.

“I don’t think so,” he says.

“I need to pee,” I tell him again, like he forgot.

“You can do it with the door open,” he says.

I glare at him, in a stand-off between his stubbornness and my throbbing bladder.

I can only last a few seconds. I drop my shorts and sit down on the toilet, letting go. The pee comes thundering out, with more pain than relief.

Oliver stands in the doorway, watching me. There’s a tiny smile at the corner of his mouth. His eyes look hooded and pleased.

I wish he would turn the fuck around and give me some privacy. Or at the very least, I wish I wasn’t peeing so long. It seems to go on forever, and it’s fucking humiliating.

He’s right, though—if he’d left me alone in the bathroom, I would have climbed out the window in five seconds.

When I’m finished at last, I pull up my shorts and wash my hands, wiping them dry again on my clothes, since there aren’t any towels.

Oliver watches this too, with a scowling expression. I think he’s looking at the cast again. Then I realize he’s actually looking at my left hand, at my engagement ring.

I’ve started wearing it more often, not just when I’m going to an event with Cal.

I can tell Oliver hates the sight of it. In fact, as soon as we’re back in the living room, he barks, “Take that off.”

“This?” I say, holding up my left hand.

“Yes,” he hisses.

Reluctantly, I slip it off my finger.

I hated that ring when I first got it. I don’t mind it so much anymore. It’s kind of pretty, how it sparkles in the sunshine. And it doesn’t look as strange and false to me as it did at first.

I’m about to slip it in my pocket for safekeeping, but Oliver says, “No. Give it to me.”

I don’t want to hand it over to him. It feels like a betrayal. But if I refuse, it’s not like I can stop him wrenching it out of my hand. So I pass it to him, silently.

There’s a tool bag sitting on the kitchen floor, next to a slightly paler patch of wall that probably had water damage, until someone fixed it.

Oliver opens the bag, taking out a hammer. He sets my ring on the kitchen countertop. Then, like he did to my phone, he smashes it over and over again with the hammer.

The metal bends, the claws coming loose around the diamonds and the stones scattering. Still he keeps hitting it, until the band is twisted and ruined, and the main stone has rolled away.

It hurts more than I expect, seeing that ring destroyed.

But what really disturbs me is how the hammer is taking huge chunks out of the butcher block countertop. Oliver doesn’t give a damn how much damage he’s doing. Knowing how he feels about this house, that can’t be a good thing.

As he swings the hammer, his fury is terrifying. His eyes are glittering, his face is flushed. He’s sweating, dark patches showing through on the chest, back, and underarms of his t-shirt. He hits the ring about a hundred times.

Finally, he stops. He’s standing there panting, looking at me. Still holding the hammer.

He takes a step toward me, and I take a step back, my heart racing.

I really think he’s losing it.

When I knew Oliver before, he seemed like a nice enough guy. Sometimes a little shallow. Sometimes a little clingy. But mostly normal, with only little swings into oddness.