Brutal Prince Bonus Scene (Brutal Birthright, #1.5)(77)

Now, it’s the opposite—he seems to be dangling on the precipice of madness, only hanging on by a thread. But I’m not sure what that thread is—is it this house? Is it his affection for me? Or is it just the appearance of calm—fragile, and easily shattered?

He takes one more step, then seems to remember that he’s holding the hammer. He sets it down on the counter, pulling his phone out of his pocket instead.

“Let’s have a little music,” he says.

He scrolls through his playlist, selecting a song and setting the phone down on the counter to play.

The tinny sound of “Make You Feel My Love” fills the little room.

When the rain is blowing in your face

And the whole world is on your case

I could offer you a warm embrace

To make you feel my love





Oliver advances on me. There’s not really any way to refuse. He takes my cast in his left hand, putting his other hand around my waist. Then he sways us back and forth, a little off the beat.

I can feel the heat radiating off his body. His hand is sweaty, wrapped around mine. There’s a slight metallic tang to his sweat. I don’t know if it was always like that, or if this is new.

In sharp contrast to our apparently romantic position, every muscle of my body is tense, every nerve is screaming that I’m in danger, that I need to get away from this man.

There is nothing romantic about this at all. I’m struggling to understand how I ever dated Oliver. I guess I never paid that much attention to him. I was looking for fun; he was just along for the ride. Now that I’m really looking into his eyes, I don’t like what I see there: need. Resentment. And a little madness.

“We never went dancing together,” Oliver says sulkily. “You always wanted to go with your friends.”

“Oliver, I’m sorry that—”

He interrupts me. “You used to call me ‘Ollie.’ I like that much better than Oliver.”

I swallow uncomfortably.

“Everybody called you that,” I say.

“But it sounded so beautiful when you said it . . .”

He’s pulling me closer against his body. I try to keep the space between us, but it’s like swimming against the tide. He’s so much stronger than me.

He pulls me right up against his chest so I have to crane my neck to look up at him.

“Say it,” he orders. “Call me Ollie.”

“Okay . . . Ollie . . .” I say.

“Perfect,” he sighs.

He bends down his head to kiss me.

His lips feel thick and rubbery against mine. They’re too wet, and that metallic note is in his saliva as well.

I can’t do it. I can’t kiss him.

I shove him away from me, wiping my mouth on the back of my arm atavistically.

Oliver folds his arms over his broad chest, frowning.

“Why do you always have to be so difficult?” he says. “I know you’re miserable with the Griffins. I took you away from that. I brought you here instead, to the most beautiful place in the state. Look at that view!”

He gestures out the window to the pale, moonlit sand, and the dark water beyond.

“You won’t kiss me, but you kiss him, don’t you?” he says, eyes narrowed. “You’ve probably fucked him, too. Haven’t you? HAVEN’T YOU?”

I know it’s only going to make him angrier, but there’s no point lying about it.

“We’re married,” I remind him.

“But you don’t love him,” Oliver says, eyes gleaming. “Say you don’t love him.”

I should just go along with it. The hammer is still laying on the counter, only a couple of feet away. Oliver could snatch it up again any moment. He could bring it down on my skull with the same fury he applied to the ring.

I should say whatever he wants. Do whatever he wants. I never told Callum I loved him. It shouldn’t be hard to say that I don’t.

I open my mouth. But nothing comes out.

“No,” Oliver says, shaking his head slowly. “No, that’s not true. You don’t love him. You only married him because you had to. You don’t care about him, not really.”

I press my lips together hard.

I’m thinking about Callum pushing me back against the leather seats and putting his face between my thighs in the back of the town car. I’m thinking about how he wrapped his arms around me and jumped down in that pipe without hesitation when the Butcher’s men had their guns pointed at us. I’m thinking how he said we should work together every day. And how he took my hand at dinner last night.

“Actually . . .” I say slowly. “I do. I do love him.”

“NO, YOU DON’T!” Oliver roars.

He backhands me across the face, knocking me to the floor. It’s like being swiped by a bear paw. There’s so much force behind it that my whole body goes limp, and I barely catch myself before I hit the floor.

I can taste iron in my mouth. My ears are ringing.

I spit a little blood out on the floor.

“Just take me home,” I mutter. “You’re not going to get what you want.”

“You’re not going home,” he says flatly. “You’re all the same. You, my father, fucking Callum Griffin . . . you think you can just give somebody something and let them have it and use it and believe it’s theirs forever. Then you rip it out of their hands again, just because you feel like it. Well, that’s not happening.”