Bitter Arrangement: Chapter 15

I turn the dial on my safe and listen to the satisfying click as it opens. The door swings out, and I look in at all my little treasures.

The bedroom behind me is empty. The closet all around me is basically raided to the studs. A few random things are still hanging around on the top shelf, but I’ll bring all that over to Alexan’s house in the next few days.

I guess I should call it our house.

I’m still getting used to the idea of living there. I’ve added a few little touches here and there to try to make it my own, but it still feels weirdly barren and cold.

Alexan doesn’t help. When he’s not angrily staring at his computer screen, he’s stomping around, complaining about my mess, which is, like, a single used glass left on a counter or a pair of pants left on the floor.

The guy’s a neat freak, par excellence.

But the worst part is the night. He reads nearly naked, his ripped body like a beacon for every single impulsive, horny, intrusive thought I have, and it takes a lot of willpower not to cross any lines. Meanwhile, he loves staring at my tits, especially my pierced nipple.

I keep picturing his mouth sucking on it hard. He could probably make me come just tonguing my piercing.

Except that’s not even the bad part.

No, the terrible thing is he keeps asking me questions about myself.

It’s infuriating. I keep thinking he’ll finally let me sleep in peace until I hear his voice in the darkness. It’s always about me: my taste in movies, TV, music, that sort of thing. He asks about friends from high school, about what I would’ve majored in if I had gone to college, all that stuff, and never once does he talk about himself.

It’s always about me.

And I hate him for it.

Because nobody’s ever shown any interest in me like that before. Not night after night for nearly a week now. We end up talking for hours sometimes, and I don’t even realize how much time has passed until I look at the clock. When he’s not being an overbearing asshole, time seems to slip away like water through my hands when we’re lying in bed together.

It’s beyond frustrating.

Life is easier when he’s nothing but an ice-cold bastard. But the way he seems deeply interested in everything I say makes me think there’s more going on underneath the surface than I realized.

“I know a guy with a stash just like yours.”

I jump and nearly hit my head on the wall. Brenden’s behind me, grinning slightly as he cranes his neck to look in my safe.

“Could you not?” I slam the door shut. “Where’d you come from, anyway?”

“You’re not hard to sneak up on. Where do you think you learned it, anyway?”

He’s got a point. I’m more than a little distracted these days.

“Who’s the guy?” I ask, coming out of the closet.

He sits on the edge of my bed—my former bed, I mean—and grimaces slightly. He’s been favoring one side ever since he got home. When I ask about where the bruises came from and why his knee seems all messed up, he refuses to talk about it. He’s skinnier than he’s ever been, and there are bags under his eyes.

“His name’s Roger Delaney. I’m pretty sure that’s not real, but it’s what he went by. The guy had this weird little collection of fetishes⁠—”

“Fetishes?” My eyebrows raise.

“Not like that.” Brenden shakes his head at me. “Fetishes, as in objects believed to have supernatural powers.”

“I had no clue that had another definition.”

“It’s an old magic thing. But anyway, he treated his little collection like they were holy relics or something.”

“What did he take?”

“Wedding rings. Seriously, wedding rings, from men and women. Anyone he could get his hands on, he’d take their ring and add it to his collection. He told me one night when he was wasted as hell that the rings gave him some of their previous owner’s strength. Batshit crazy but a great burglar.”

“You think my collection’s crazy too?”

He shakes his head. “I think it’s a liability, but it’s important to you. I’m just curious why you haven’t moved it into your new house yet.”

I was wondering the same thing. I glance back into the closet and try to imagine all those objects under Alexan’s roof, but it feels wrong.

Those are mine, but that place is partially his.

I don’t want to share my treasures with anyone, not even my husband.

“I’ll do it eventually,” I say vaguely as I put the loose board back into place. “When I’m ready, I guess.”

“Think you ever will be?” Brenden’s voice is serious as he studies me. “Seriously, Riles, you good?”

“Depends on how you define good, but yeah, I’m okay.”

“He’s treating you well?”

I’m about to answer when the door pushes open. My father’s standing there in the hallway, frowning in at us like we’re sitting here planning a coup.

“Riley’s marriage isn’t your concern,” Dad says to Brenden. “You should stay out of it.”

Brenden glares at our father. “I’m just making sure he’s treating her well. You really don’t care if you sold her off to some asshole?”

“Alexan Sarkissian will respect the agreement we put in place.” Dad doesn’t seem fazed by Brenden’s anger. He never does. My brother could scream in our father’s face, and our old man would only stare death in return. “Beyond that, you don’t need to worry.”

“That’s typical.” Brenden gets to his feet with a slight grimace. “Don’t worry, we’ll shoulder the burden.”

“That’s enough.”

“No, it’s fine. You go on and sell your daughter⁠—”

“I said, that’s enough.”

Brenden looks disgusted as he hobbles past me. He pauses and puts a hand on my shoulder, and I want to say something. I want to thank him for standing up to our father, tell him that I’m okay, that Alexan’s actually not bad at all, that if anything goes wrong, it’s all my fault, only I can’t make myself talk.

Not with our father standing there and watching.

Brenden walks off. If he’s surprised that I keep my mouth shut, he doesn’t show it.

He’s used to my cowardice by now.

“Careful how you talk, Riley,” Dad says, glaring in at me. “You know how important your alliance is to the family.”

Fuck you, judgmental asshole. I’m doing the best I can.

“Yes, Dad. I know.”

“I hope you’re not doing anything to endanger the peace.”

I drag in a breath through my nose to stay calm. My shoulders slump with the effort. “I know my role.”

“Good.” Dad turns away. “Make sure you don’t forget it. And stop coming over here. Your place is back home.”

Which sure as hell isn’t here anymore.

Once he’s gone, I collapse onto the bed. My heart’s racing, and sweat breaks out on my skin. There’s not a single person in the world that can make me feel so small and weak like my father can.

All he has to do is give me that disappointed look, and suddenly I’m a little girl again, desperate to please her daddy but unable to ever do it.

Absolutely pathetic.

I get out of there not long after. I head out front, thinking I’ll order an Uber back to Alexan’s, but there’s a black BMW already waiting.

And my husband is behind the wheel.

I hesitate, staring at him. He looks right back at me and motions with his head for me to get in.

I figure running away would only make things worse, so I climb into the passenger seat.

“I didn’t know you were running a car service,” I say as sweetly as I can.

“You shouldn’t be out here. You know how dangerous it is.”

“I just have some things I still need at home.”

He glances at my empty hands, and I realize I left all my stuff back in my room. Oh, well, too late now. I’m not going back inside.

He puts the car in gear. “Next time, tell me where you’re going.”

“Are you tracking me now?”

“No, I’m making sure you’re safe, remember?”

“I didn’t realize you were going to be overprotective and controlling.” I sit back in the seat, frustrated and angry, though not really at him.

Mostly at myself. But I feel like taking it out on my husband.

“Let’s call it possessive.” He stares out the front window as he drives. “Your place is in my house now.”

“Let’s call it delusional instead.”

“Are we going to fight about every little thing?”

“Probably.”

“Wonderful. I’m sure you’ll want to fight when you’re dead, too.”

“You and I can bicker in heaven. Well, I’ll be there; I don’t know about you.”

He smirks and glances at me. “You think I’m such an evil man?”

“If the shoe fits. Or maybe I mean if the gun holster fits.” I eye the bulge under his jacket.

He laughs softly, shaking his head. “The world needs men like me, princess.”

“That’s what every asshole says.” I lean in close and put a hand on his thigh. He stiffens, lips pressing into a tight line. “Except most of them are too stupid to realize when they stop being the hero and turn into the villain.”

He says nothing. I leave my hand right there on his thigh, dangerously close to his big hard dick, mostly just to tease him, but also because I like it.

He’s attractive as hell. I can’t pretend otherwise. But for all my talk about villains and evil men, I find myself absolutely fascinated by my husband.

Maybe he’s a bad guy. But maybe I like bad guys.

“Either move your hand further up or sit back and put your damn seat belt on,” he snarls, fingers gripping the wheel, and I realize maybe I’m being a tad impulsive yet again.

“Yes, sir,” I say, clicking myself in.

“Good girl.” He glances in my direction. “Looks like I called your bluff.”

“Don’t be a child. There was no bluff.”

“Then climb in my lap right now. I’ll park the car and we can work on getting you pregnant.”

I sputter, laughing at the audacity. “Isn’t it dangerous out here?”

“You’re safe with me.”

“Yeah, right, I’m sure I’ll be safe with your dick between my legs.” I shiver at the thought.

He licks his lips. “That’s the safest place in the world for you: sweating and writhing in my lap.”

I roll my eyes and look out the window while inwardly my core’s throbbing with every massive beat of my heart.

This man’s got a dirty mouth and way too much confidence, and the worst part is, I think I like it.

Which is bad. The second this overprotective asshole realizes his whole dominant dickhead routine kind of works on me, he’s going to be absolutely insufferable.

Better keep these feelings to myself.