Crowned by Hate (Crowned #1)

by Amo Jones

  “For the record, I didn’t plan this…” he smirks, hooking his finger into my panties and yup you guessed it, tearing the suckers right off.

  Stepping backward, while taking all of my nakedness in, he smirks. Now, I don’t know the full details of why he married me, I mean, I know it has to do with my dad and making my life miserable, but right now, he’s not succeeding with the miserable side—in fact, I’m getting rather annoyed at how something nudges in my chest every time he looks at me with his hungry predatory glare.

  “Fuck me,” I blurt out before I dive headfirst into feelings I don’t particularly want to so much as test the waters with right now.

  He drops to his knees, tossing my leg over his shoulder and blows on my clit until my back is arching off the wall and my wetness dripping down my inner thigh. “After I’ve eaten.”

  Coming down slightly with sweat dripping off my skin, I feel my eyes getting drowsy and heavy. Leaning against the glass wall while clutching his suit jacket around my naked body, I watch as he gets up from the floor butt naked and saunters toward the bar, taking out a couple of bottled waters from the fridge. I take that time to tilt my head and watch his perfect ass flex with each step. Then he’s frontal, his gigantic heavy dick right there as he comes back to me with a smug grin on his face, tossing a bottle at me. His usually perfectly styled hair is sitting all messy and unruly on the top of his head and his abs are glistening against the dim bar light. The sun has far since set and now the sky is filled with bright stars that are twinkling over us.

  Bryant leans against the wall beside me, taking a gulp of water.

  I laugh. “So much for twenty-one questions.”

  He swallows. “Well, we got to four.”

  “True…” I shake my head. “I don’t think I’ve ever had sex with someone who hates me, though.” There’s a long pause. I didn’t mean it to sound like I was sad about it, or that I even cared, but the fact that my stupid fucking filter didn’t do me a solid when it should have and now Bryant is going to think that out of those four questions, that was the one that got to me, yeah, that fact annoys me.

  “There’s a first time for everything.” Then he pauses. Well, he’s always honest, I have to give him that. “I don’t want to hate you, Isa.” He pushes off the wall and stands directly in front of me with each hand on either side of my head, caging me in. He’s so close that I can feel his bulge pressing against my belly. He looks between each of my eyes, his eyebrows pulled in slightly. “Hate is an easy feeling for me to embrace. I feed off of it. Better I feel something, even if it is hate.”

  “I get it.” I shake my head, hanging my head slightly. The first time since this whole thing started, I feel a tone of different emotions running wild inside of me. “I deserve it too, I guess.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  My eyes snap back up to his, shocked by his answer. “I don’t?”

  “No, Isa…” he glares back at me. It’s a stare that says don’t fucking question my sincerity of my answer. I let him carry on because of this. “I used it as a nesting ground to force you to marry me so I could destroy your life. To make me feel better, but truth is, Justin had it coming. He was a convicted sex offender. My parents? They paid it all away constantly. He was eventually going to pay for his wrongs. I’m only sorry it had to be you that had to live with it, ‘cuz I sure as fuck know I almost killed him—more than once.”

  “I’m sorry,” is all I can muster to say.

  “Sorry for what?” He pushes off the wall and I feel as though a huge weight had been taken away with him.

  “You lost your brother.”

  Bryant shrugs casually. “As I said, he had it coming.”

  Not wanting to let this one thing go, I ask, “Why did you marry me, Bryant.”

  He chuckles, tugging his clothes back on. “I’ll tell you one day.”

  “When?”

  “When I don’t hate you anymore, and when I trust you.” Then he points to his jacket. “You might need to leave that on… since your dress is ruined.”

  Shit.

  “Bryant!” I half laugh and half annoyed snap at him, shaking my head. “Your parents are going to see us in this state.”

  He shrugs. “Jess has some clothes here you can wear if it bothers you that much. We’ll eat dinner and leave.”

  We ate dinner, and I slipped into some of Jess’s clothes, even though she’s a whole dress size smaller than me. Dinner talk was easy, carefree. Around all the laughs about Bryant’s childhood photos, and the sangria, it was a breeze and I felt as though I had known, particularly his mother, longer than what I actually had.

  12

  Bryant

  Isa hugs my mom and dad goodbye before we get into my car. Seeing her little body against my dad’s almost makes me laugh because he’s built like a caveman and she’s so tiny. I could snap her with a simple flick of my wrist. I want to snap her. I want to snap her bad. Truth is, I can’t let go of this feeling of wanting to hurt her. She reminds of that day every time I see her. It’s not really that day though, I couldn’t give a fuck about Justin, and that’s the God honest truth. The fucker had it coming, and if Isa didn’t do it, I would have eventually. The little fuck was always spoilt and always had Mom and Dad bailing him out of every single shit mess he had created. Since he has been gone, my mother hasn’t touched a drink and my father has been around the house more often. It’s as if his “disappearance” is unspoken, but it was healthy for our family. He put a lot of bullshit on all of our plates. Jessica was the one I knew would be okay with it the most. Well, as okay as you can be. Justin spent most of his time and life tormenting her whenever I wasn’t around. He’d lock her in the attic for days on end while Dad was out on business and Mom was too drunk to register. She was his very own doll that he would use as he pleased. When the first round of sexual abuse case came around, we had to sit down and ask Jessica if there was anything that we needed to know. Just to be sure, and because with Justin, you’d never know.

  “Are you crazy? No. He would hit me and get great pleasure on inflicting pain on me but no, he never sexually touched me.” Which was a fucking good thing, because I would have ended him that day—no questions asked, if he had. Other than that, we don’t talk about it. It never did make much sense to me though because he didn’t actually need to rape women. He was good-looking, he could’ve probably had anyone he wanted, but he needed to force himself onto them. It was what got him off. He said he had gotten better as years went on, but he hadn’t.

  “Damn.” Isa breaks through my thoughts, tidying her hair as I drive out onto the busy road. “I feel like a whore.”

  “Whore’s get paid. You rode my dick for free.” I see her head snap toward me out of the corner of my eye, so I smirk.

  Gotta admit, seeing her in my jacket earlier with her hair all up in a messy ponytail almost had me punching in my man card and dropping to her knees. Fuck. Even thinking something like that has me worried as shit. This wasn’t part of the plan. I wasn’t supposed to get attached to her—and I’m not attached to her— but I do find myself slowly warming up to her annoying tendencies and finding them, at times, the times when I don’t want to strangle her, a little cute.

  Cute? The fuck.

  I need to go by the office to get her the fuck out of my head. Maybe drown myself in some worthless pussy to remind myself that Isa Johnson—fuck—Isa Royal, does not mean shit to me. But the thought of having any other girl but Isa wrapped around my dick has him doing a duck and hide. Fuck.

  “Bryant?” She waits for me to answer whatever she just said, but I don’t know what the fuck she asked because I was too busy thinking about bending her over the bar and smashing her cervix open as I yanked on that sexy little ponytail—fuck.

  “Yeah?” Fuck it, I’ll wing it and act like I heard whatever the fuck she was yapping about.

  “Can we stop at iHop? I feel like pancakes.”

  I smirk. Pancakes. My girl likes pancakes. I’ll be damn
ed. “Done.”

  I called her my girl.

  I need a new swear word because ‘fuck’ is losing its effect.

  Fuck.

  “Bryant? Your three o’clock is here…” Dahlia, my assistant, knocks on my door. Which is a good thing, considering all I can think about is our pancake trip last night. Isa went on about her family and how distant they all are. She didn’t need to tell me, though, I pegged that the first time I ever met her father, Mr. President. He’s not a good sort, not even in the slightest, but I voted for him. Why? Because he gives a shit about America, and anyone who gives a shit about ‘Merica, I have time for. Not like the rest of the pussyfooters who had previously run our government. We needed a soldier, a mother-fucking marine, and he is all those things. His fatherly love wasn’t a part of my voting equation and I will probably vote him again. Her stepmom, Lydia, sounds nuts, but the way Isa’s tone changes when she talks about her tells me that there is a slight air of compassion toward her. More than what she shows her father. Her sister sounds nuts too. In fact, they all do. Which is ironic because Isa says she’s the outcast of the family, but the more I get to know her, she’s not the outcast—it’s her family who are the outcasts.

  “Yeah, bring him in.” I don’t remember who the fuck my three o’clock is, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t actually book someone for three, but I haven’t been on top of my game much lately, and it has everything to do with a green-eyed brunette who currently bears my last name.

  Fucking Isa.

  “Royal!” I bring my eyes up to the door and see Devon, Isa’s best-friend walk through the door. I lean back in my chair lazily, an eyebrow raised.

  “Devon.” I give him one of my grins as he takes a seat. “I don’t remember having a three o’clock appointment.”

  “Funny.” He leans back in his chair, his jaw clenching. “I don’t remember having to book an appointment.”

  “What can I do for you?” I glare at him, trying to hide the smug look on my face. Smug because I know how much he must hate that Isa, the girl he’s been in love with for years, is bouncing on my dick now. I discretely readjust myself, squashing any thoughts of Isa ‘bouncin’ on my dick.’

  Fuck.

  “You can tell me why my cousin decided to marry my best friend.”

  I can’t even stop the laugh that escapes me. “Ahh, knew that would be what you wanted.”

  Devon leans on his elbow. “I’m serious, B. Why the fuck did you marry Isa. Has this got to do with me? You hate me that much, huh?”

  I take back my earlier statement about Isa’s family being all fucked up. I can’t judge, my family would give them a run for their money. And we both have a lot of fucking money.

  “Why would this have anything to do with you?” I ask, slightly insulted that he would think I gave a fuck about his existence enough to marry someone just for his discomfort.

  He continues to glare at me from across the room. “Why, then?”

  I lean forward, tapping on my computer keyboard. “A few reasons, none of which are any of your business. And by the way, why have you stopped talking to her? You didn’t even make the wedding.” I grin, putting a cigarette between my teeth and sparking it up with my Zippo. “I’m rather insulted.”

  “You don’t get insulted,” he answers deadpan. He’s right, I don’t, and I might be fishing for a reason to knock his teeth out just for shits and giggles because it’s been a long time since I’ve knocked someone the fuck out.

  He gets up from his chair, throwing his hoodie over his head. “Bryant, you hurt her and I will kill you.”

  Now, this would be the perfect time, but I’m too zen to give a fuck, so I smirk. “Noted.”

  He leaves like a sore loser who didn’t get the last cookie in the jar. And he didn’t. He didn’t get any cookies in the jar because I don’t just own the cookies now, I own the jar and the whole damn kitchen. Typical Devon, needs reminding where his place is when he tries to come against me, which is about one hundred steps below.

  The convenience of Devon being her roommate was too coincidental, but I didn’t plan it that way at all, and I wasn’t lying when I said that it had nothing to do with him. Because it has everything to do with her father. All I have to do now is make sure I don’t let that fucking smile or stupid fucking laugh get under my skin.

  I watch as Isa bolted out the tent, shocked and distraught—and as she should. She just killed someone after all… my brother. This wasn’t part of the plan and Justin was supposed to keep himself under control. This time he chose wrong though because Isa was obviously a take no shit kinda girl. Good to know.

  “Bryant, man, what are we going to do about this mess?” Isaac stressed, his face pale and his lips blue. It’s almost as if he was the one who killed him. Little bitch. I didn’t blame him though, the sight wasn’t an easy one to swallow.

  “I have someone.” I tilted my head.

  “You have someone?” Bobby scoffed, taking a seat on the bed in the far corner of the tent. His head drops to the palm of his hands while he started to rock gently. He was about to lose it, no doubt, but that was Bobby. Always was the one to flip out over the smallest of things, so yeah, this sight probably kicked up his ‘lose it’ meter a lot.

  “Yes,” I hissed, looking at him. “Of course I fucking do.”

  “How can you be so easy about this? This is your brother! I mean, I know that you both haven’t been very close since—ever but still…” Bobby continued, looking at the motionless body on the floor.

  “Because I hated him.” I pulled out my phone and pressed call on The Reaper. He answered on the second ring.

  “Royal. Well, I wish I could say that I was surprised, but I’m not.”

  I blurted out the location of where we were and hung up my phone, looking back to Isaac. “He’s on his way. Once he’s done his job, and he’s very good at his job, I’ll get the crew to pack away this tent.”

  “But you didn’t get the girl…” Isaac whispered, looking at me.

  “No, I didn’t, but I will. She’s mine. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

  13

  Isa

  My phone vibrating on my bedside table brings me out of my painting trance. I set up my easel right beside the glass window that overlooks downtown New York. I spent all day shopping for supplies because I couldn’t get my paint shipped from New Orleans and it be here on time. Tilting my head at the murky black shadows that I have painted on the canvas, I wipe my hands on a rag while answering my phone.

  “Hello?” I’m still trying to figure out my new painting. It’s all dark shadows and blood when Devon’s voice shocks me out of my daze.

  “Isa…”

  “Devon!” I screech, looking down at my phone to see an unknown number displayed.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry, boo. Can you talk?”

  “I’m mad at you.” I place my brush back on the stand and walk to the large window.

  “I know.”

  “Really mad.”

  He sighs. “I know.”

  “Want to do lunch?” I ask, already slightly over my being mad at him.

  “Sure. Donut King?”

  I smile, my stomach rumbling at the thought of deep-fried goodness. “See you there soon.” Hanging up my phone, I have a quick shower and toss some jeans and a T-shirt on before slipping out of the penthouse and onto the busy street of downtown, of course, with Jerry and a couple MIB’s following very closely.

  “Mrs. Royal,” Brian, Bryant’s driver gestures toward the black SUV. Brian and Bryant. Cute. Sounds like the beginning of a true bromance story. “I can take you where you need to go.”

  I bite down my quirky thoughts. “Of course. Thank you.” Brian, who must be in his late fifties, opens the back door of the Range Rover, gesturing for me to get in.

  I look back to Jerry and he nods, getting one of his men to get their car.

  The drive to Donut King wasn’t long, like I had expected. I knew it wasn’t very far from where we were
. He pulls up to the curb and gets out, opening my door.

  I nod at him politely. “Thanks, Brian. I can text you when I need you to collect me.”

  Brian cranks his neck until it clicks. “It’s no problem, Mrs. Royal. I can wait for you here.”

  I still don’t know if or when I will ever get used to being ‘Mrs. Royal.’

  I pause, watching him closely. “Bryant put you up to this, didn’t he?”

  Brian gives me an apologetic smile. At least he looks a little bit sorry, even if he’s not. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You can call me Isa, Brian.” He shuffles slightly. “Unless it makes you more comfortable calling me Mrs. Royal?”

  He nods. “I’m afraid I feel more comfortable referring to you as that.”

  Patting his arm, his big, strong arm, I reply, “Okay, and I will try not to be long.”

  He shakes his head. “Take as long as you need.” Then I turn around and walk into the large purple store. The smell hits me instantly, deep-fried pastries sprinkled in warm cinnamon and brown sugar then dipped in chocolate syrup, maybe. Oh, or caramel syrup. My stomach grumbles loudly, making it known just how hungry I am. Damn, I feel as though I’ve died and gone to heaven. I see Devon’s back facing me and my heart rate picks up again. Coming up behind him, I quickly wrap my arms around his neck from behind and he instantly jolts up from his chair in surprise, picks me up, and spins me around.