My Dark Romeo: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance(34)

My blood cooled in my veins.

My muscles tensed.

I parked a possessive hand on her waist.

Dallas took in my father’s general welfare. Or lack thereof. A million questions danced behind her honey-hued eyes.

I hoped Senior saw each and every one.

He hated the idea of people knowing what had happened to him. That his imperial body had failed him, and he’d soon wither into himself.

Which was why he’d chosen to retire before the general public could witness what his disease did to him.

Senior captured Dallas’s hand and brought it to his lips, making eye contact with her. “Romeo, she is ravishing.”

“I have eyes,” I informed him.

“You have hands, too, and they seem to be all over her. Relax.” He chuckled. “She isn’t going to run anywhere, is she?”

Dallas studied the human ring surrounding her, trying to read the atmosphere. It was obvious bad blood ran between the men present.

Hedging her bets on a safe stock, she laced her arm in Monica’s and smiled. “I’d love to help you in the kitchen, Mom.”

“Oh, I haven’t entered my kitchen since 1998.” She waved a hand. “It’s all servants.”

Dallas flashed her dazzling smile, but I could tell she didn’t like Monica’s usage of the words servants.

Did my young bride have morals? Unlikely.

Best not to find out.

“Shall we sit down for dinner?” Senior suggested.

“Certainly, Romeo.” Bruce all but rolled over and showed him his tummy for a rub.

When the four of them poured into the dining room, Shortbread held back and leaned toward me, her voice low. “Is your father okay? Is something wrong with him?”

There was a lot wrong with Senior.

Friedreich’s ataxia happened to be the only thing right about him.

It would kill him, eventually. Too slow for my liking. But in the meantime, I enjoyed the progression of his symptoms.

Each time he struggled to walk in sudden bouts. The fatigue. The slowed speech. The only time I ever listened to him speak, really.

“He has a rare inherited disease that causes progressive nervous system damage.” I strode to the dining room, refusing to match her volume.

I didn’t care if Senior heard me.

In fact, I would enjoy it.

Her forehead creased. “Inherited? Will you—”

“Get it? No. It requires two recessive genes.” I leaned into her, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Careful, Shortbread. Wouldn’t want to mistake you for caring.”

Dinner consisted of Bruce and Shelley cross-examining Shortbread about the debutante ball, Monica trying to lure Dallas to European shopping sprees, and Senior prying her for obvious flaws.

Of which there were many.

My bride slumped in her seat like an overcooked shrimp, most certainly to grate on my already raw nerves.

I could tell Shortbread didn’t enjoy defending our relationship, for the simple fact that it did not exist. She was forced to lie through her teeth for a man who had plucked her from her charming life.

By the time dessert was served, shockingly, she didn’t even touch it.

Bruce and Shelley grilled her with their millionth question about her relationship with Madison Licht. She took frequent sips of water, her usual fire long doused.

“…just find it odd that after Madison sang your praises to half the DMV, you two would break off an engagement following a short flirt with our little Junior—”

Bruce would’ve drilled the subject until oil poured out if Shortbread hadn’t blurted, “May I be excused?”

My parents shared a puzzled look.

“Go ahead.” I stood, pulling her chair for her.

She disappeared faster than a bikini top in a Cancun spring break party.

Bruce turned to me. “Junior, son, what you are doing to this child is deplorable.”

“So is what you’re doing to me,” I pointed out.

“What am I doing to you?”

“Existing.”

“Romeo,” Senior faux-chided. He fucking loved our competition for his throne. “Stop mocking Bruce. You know better than to disrespect your elders.”

I sipped my brandy. “He started it.”

Bruce frowned. “How so?”

“By being born.”

Nothing brought out my inner child like arguing with my nemesis in front of my father.

“Madison is going around telling people the DOD will make them an offer for an annual contract.” Senior dug into his pie, changing the subject. The fork pinched between his fingers rattled, either from irritation or his disease. “The one we’re currently grandfathered into. You know, their company holds the rights to the taser shockwave system prototype. My sources tell me it’s a deal breaker. They have cutting-edge blueprints we don’t.”

A direct consequence of Senior relying on engineers and experts with dated knowledge and no field experience to speak of.

Senior hadn’t just dropped the ball. He’d let it roll all the way to our enemy’s home field.

During my undergrad at MIT, he’d admonished my engineering degree as wasteful since Costa Industries boasted an army of engineers, yet here we were.

A decade behind, pants around our ankles.

“Madison is right. We’re old blood. Weak in the teeth.” I slammed the tumbler on the table, staring Senior in the eye. “Make me your CEO, and I’ll give you a state-of-the-art weapon. I’m talking nuclear-level destruction.”