Brutal Prince: Chapter 10

It’s my wedding day.

It’s nothing like I pictured, but then, I never spent much time picturing getting married. I expected it to happen eventually, but I never really gave a shit about it.

I’ve dated plenty of women—when it was convenient. I’ve always had my own plans, my own goals. Any woman had to fit in with that, or I’d cut her loose the minute she became more trouble than she was worth.

In fact, I was dating someone when my father arranged this whole thing with the Gallos. Charlotte Harper and I had been together about three months. As soon as I found out that I was “engaged,” I called her to break it off. And I felt . . . nothing. I didn’t really care if I saw Charlotte again or not. There’s nothing wrong with her—she’s pretty, accomplished, well-connected. But when I break up with a woman, I feel the same as when I throw away an old pair of shoes. I know I’ll find a new one soon enough.

This time the new one is Aida Gallo. And I’m supposed to love, cherish, and protect her until the end of her days. I’m not sure I can do any of those things, except maybe keep her safe.

Here’s one thing I do know: I’m not going to put up with her fucking nonsense once we’re married. It’s like my father says: she needs to be trained. I’m not going to have some wild, disobedient wife. She will learn to obey me, one way or another. Even if I have to grind her down to powder under my feet.

I smirk a little, thinking about her “spa day” yesterday. The point of that, obviously, was to get her ready for tonight. I’m supposed to consummate the marriage, and I’m not fucking some messy little ragamuffin in flip flops and jean shorts. I expect her to be properly groomed, from head to toe.

I love the idea of her being primped and cleaned and waxed to my specifications. Like a little doll, built just the way I like it.

I’ve already showered and shaved, so now it’s time to put on my tux. But when I check the hook in the closet where I expect it to be hung, there’s nothing there.

I call down to Marta, one of our house staff.

“Where’s my tux?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Griffin,” she says nervously. “I went to the shop to pick it up like you said, but they told me the order had been cancelled. A box was shipped here instead, from Ms. Gallo.”

“A box?”

“Yes, shall I bring it up?”

I wait impatiently in the doorway while Marta jogs up the stairs, a large, square garment box in her hands.

What the hell is this? Why is Aida fucking with my tux?

“Leave it,” I say to Marta. She sets the box down gingerly on my couch.

I wait until she’s gone, then I open it up.

On top is an envelope, with the messy handwriting I can only assume belongs to my fiancée. I rip it open, pulling out a note:

I can’t help snickering at her description of the spa. But my smile freezes on my face when I pull apart the tissue paper and see the tux she’s expecting me to wear.

It looks like a fucking clown suit. Made of shiny brown satin, it’s covered in garish embroidery on the shoulders, lapels, and even the back of the jacket. It’s a three-piece suit complete with vest, not to mention a lace pocket square and cravat. The only person I can picture wearing this is Liberace.

My mother hustles into the room, looking flustered. I can see she’s already dressed in an elegant sage-green cocktail gown, her hair a smooth, pale cap, and tasteful gold earrings dangling from her lobes.

“What are you doing? Why aren’t you dressed?” she says, when she sees me standing there with a towel tied around my waist.

“Because I don’t have my tux,” I tell her.

“What’s that?”

I step aside so she can see. She plucks up the lace cravat, holding it distastefully between her forefinger and thumb.

“A gift from my soon-to-be bride,” I say, holding out the card.

My mother reads it in a glance. She frowns, then says, “Put it on.”

I bark out a laugh.

“You have to be joking.”

“Do it!” she says. “We don’t have time to get another tux. And it’s not worth blowing this whole thing up over a suit.”

“This is not a suit. It’s a fucking embarrassment.”

“I don’t care!” she says sharply. “It’s a small wedding. Hardly anyone will see.”

“Not happening.”

“Callum,” she snaps. “Enough. You’re going to have a hundred more battles to fight with Aida. You need to pick the ones that are important. Now get moving, we need to leave in six minutes.”

Unbelievable. I thought she’d lose her mind over this, if only for the way the brown will clash with her carefully-curated cream, olive, and gray color scheme.

I pull on the ridiculous suit, almost choking on the smell of mothballs. I don’t even want to know where Aida dug this up. Probably her great-grandfather was buried in it.

The important thing is how I’m going to punish her for this.

She’s made a serious mistake, poking the bear over and over again. It’s time for me to wake up and give her a good slap.

She’ll get what’s coming to her tonight.

As soon as I’m dressed, I hurry down the stairs to the waiting limo. The one carrying my mother and sisters already left—it’s just me and my father in this one.

He raises an eyebrow at my suit but doesn’t say anything. My mother probably already briefed him.

“How are you feeling?” he asks me curtly.

“Fantastic,” I say. “Can’t you tell?”

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of humor,” he informs me.

“I thought that was puns.”

“This will be good for you, Cal. You can’t see it now, but it will be.”

I set my teeth, imagining taking out every one of my frustrations on Aida’s tight little ass tonight.

I feel sacrilegious walking into the church—like god might strike us down for this unholy union. If Aida pisses me off enough, I’m going to dunk her in the holy water and see if it sets her aflame.

It’s easy to see which side of the aisle is mine and which is Aida’s—all those dark, curly-haired Italians vs. the horse mane hues of the Irish: blond, red, gray, and brunette.

The groomsmen are Aida’s brothers, the bridesmaids are my sisters. We have equal numbers because only Dante and Nero are standing up—Sebastian is sitting in the front row in a wheelchair, his knee still bulky from the bandage under his slacks.

I don’t know if he actually needs the wheelchair, or it’s just a ‘fuck you’ to my side of the family, but I feel a twinge of guilt regardless. I push it away, thinking the Gallos are lucky they got off that easy.

The sage-green bridesmaids’ dress suits Riona very well, but not Nessa—it makes her look pale and a bit sickly. She doesn’t seem to mind. She’s the only one smiling up by the altar. Dante and Riona are glaring at each other, and Nero is looking at Nessa with an expression of interest that has me about five seconds away from wrapping my fingers around his throat. If he says one word to her, I’m going to bash his pretty face in.

The church is full of the heavy scent of cream-colored peonies. The priest is already standing at the altar. We’re just waiting for Aida.

The music starts, and after a moment’s pause, my bride comes walking up the aisle.

She’s wearing a veil and a simple lace dress that trails after her. She has a bouquet in one hand, but she lets it hang by her thigh, using her other hand to hold the skirt of her dress. I can’t see her face behind the veil, which drives home more than ever that I’m marrying a stranger. There could be anybody under there.

My bride stops in front of me. I lift the veil.

I see her smooth, tanned skin and her clear gray eyes, heavily lashed. I have to admit, she looks beautiful. The reveal of her face drives home how lovely those features really are, when they’re not screwed up in some demonic expression.

It doesn’t last long—as soon as she catches an unencumbered view of my suit, her face lights up with malicious glee.

“You look amazing,” she whispers, snickering.

“I’ll get you back,” I inform her calmly.

“I was already getting you back for that bullshit you pulled at the spa,” she hisses back at me.

The priest clears his throat, wanting to start the service.

“When you’re married to me, I expect you to maintain yourself at all times,” I inform her.

“The FUCK I will,” Aida snaps, loud enough to make the priest jump.

“Is there a problem?” he says, frowning at us.

“No problem at all. Start the ceremony,” I order.

Aida and I continue to snipe at each other in muttered tones, while the priest drones his way through the vows.

“If you think I’m gonna be some little porn star for you—”

“That’s just bare minimum standards—”

“Yes, it certainly was bare—”

We break off when we realize the priest is staring at us.

“Callum Griffin and Aida Gallo, have you come here freely and without reservation to give yourselves to each other in marriage?” he says.

“Yes,” I reply angrily.

“Oh yes,” Aida says, in the tone of voice my father would classify as “the lowest form of humor.”

“Will you honor each other as man and wife for the rest of your lives?”

“Yes,” I say, after a moment’s hesitation. The rest of our lives is a very fucking long time. I don’t want to picture it right now.

“Yes,” Aida says, looking at me like she’s planning to try to make the rest of MY life as short as possible.

“Will you accept children lovingly from God, and bring them up according to the law of Christ and his church?”

“Yes,” I say.

I’d get Aida pregnant right this second, purely because of how furious it would make her. That would be one way to tame the wild beast.

Aida already looks so annoyed that I don’t think she’s going to answer the question. Finally, through stiff lips, she mutters, “Yes.”

“Then say your vows,” the priest instructs.

I seize Aida’s hands and squeeze them as hard as I can, trying to make her flinch. She stubbornly sets her face, refusing to acknowledge the pressure on her fingers.

“I, Callum, take you, Aida, to be my wife. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.”

I spout the words off quickly, having memorized them on the car ride over.

Aida looks at me for a moment, her gray eyes more serious than usual. Then, in a flat tone, she repeats the vow back to me.

“I pronounce you man and wife,” the priest says.

That’s it. We’re married.

Aida tilts her lips up for a chaste kiss.

To show her who’s boss, I seize her by the shoulders and kiss her roughly, forcing my tongue into her mouth. Her lips and tongue taste sweet. Tart and fresh. Like something I haven’t tasted in a very long time . . .

Strawberries.

I can already feel my tongue going numb. My throat starts to swell, my breath coming out in a whistle.

The church whirls around me in a kaleidoscope of color, as I slump to the floor.

That fucking BITCH!