Necessary Cruelty: A Dark Enemies-to-Lovers Bully Romance (Lords of Deception Book 1)

by Ashley Gee

Sex is something I understand. Good sex doesn’t require emotions or deeper meaning. But each time I put my hands on her, it gets easier to imagine doing it for significantly longer than a year. I have to remind myself over and over that she will eventually walk away.

  Or run, if she’s as smart as I think she is.

  “You didn’t think to ask me if I’d want somebody here besides Iain McKinley?” she snaps.

  “Not really.”

  I also didn’t ask her if she minded missing school since we’ll be spending the night. I don’t particularly care, so it’s easy to assume that she doesn’t, either. I’m paying for the privilege of her agreement, no matter how much she might want to pretend like her opinion matters for any of this.

  Apparently, she disagrees.

  “You are so damn high-handed.” Anger narrows her eyes and purses her lips in a way that highlights the sharp angle of her cheekbones. The more pissed off she is, the prettier she gets. “The more you try to bully me, the more I want to say no on principle, you ass.”

  “Say no, then. Tell me exactly where to shove my money and my offer to change your fucking life.” My hand slides along her slim thigh, ignoring her attempts to push it away. I barely need to slip under the hem of her skirt to feel the raging inferno between her thighs. “Then give me about thirty seconds to change your mind.”

  Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t rise to the bait. Smart girl.

  “I’m not getting married in my pajamas. If you think I’m going to stand up with you at an altar looking like this, then you’ve lost your goddamned mind.”

  Without bothering to respond, I reach behind me and pull a dress bag out of the back seat then dump the whole thing on her lap. It might be a little wrinkled from the drive, but nothing that should embarrass her. It wasn’t a joke when I told her I’d thought of everything.

  I’ve probably spent too much time thinking through this.

  Suddenly sobering, I force myself to remember I’ve had to literally buy her attention. Just like every other girl who has ever been in my life. Zaya is doing this for money, nothing else.

  “Next time you run your mouth, remember why you’re doing this.” I keep my voice cold and remote, as if doesn’t matter to me at all what she decides to do. “You want to keep Zion out of prison and your grandfather eating something other than dog food. Play along, or I’ll take back all my toys and find someone who will actually appreciate them.”

  She plays at the zipper of the dress bag, obviously resisting the urge to look at the dress inside. Her lips thin, and I almost see the start of what looks like tears in those overly large eyes.

  Maybe both of us need the reminder.

  Zaya pulls herself together and shoves open her door before the car has even rolled to a complete stop. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Zaya makes a beautiful bride. Even when she is only wearing a white silk dress that I picked up at the last minute and her face bare of makeup. Bridezillas who spend months stressing over their perfect day could eat their hearts out.

  I open my mouth to say that, but then shut it again.

  If she were actually my fiancée, then I might pay her the compliment, like the type who actually means it when they say as long as we both shall live at the altar. But it would just be a waste of time on the girl I bought and paid for.

  That isn’t how we talk to each other, even when the words taste like poison on the tip of my tongue just begging to be spat out. Everything about this is temporary, no matter how pretty it looks from the outside.

  But I could still see myself wanting her forever.

  Which makes absolutely no fucking sense.

  Iain is already waiting at the altar with a bored expression on his face. He has on the sport coat I begged him to wear, with board shorts on bottom and no shirt underneath. The only reason he agreed to come out here was because the surf is breaking in bombs along the north coast and he can get in a few rides before going back to Deception.

  Despite his apparent lack of interest in the proceedings, I chose Iain for the specific reason that he won’t try to talk me out of any of this. He has always been an any means to end type of guy, which is probably why we get along so well.

  He won’t stand in my way, even when I might be self-destructing.

  Zaya stands up next to me at a makeshift altar and is shaking like a leaf. An archway has been set up in an open area at the center of the vineyard. Honeysuckle hangs down from it to sweeten the air. It might as well be swamp gas for all that she seems to notice.

  Neither of us are enjoying this.

  It was probably a bad idea for me to try and make this nice. The pretty facade just serves as a reminder that there isn’t any substance under all this fanfare.

  The ceremony itself is brief and anticlimactic. The justice of the peace that I paid double to get out here at the last minute recites the same speech he has probably used a thousand times before.

  When it’s time to exchange rings, Zaya’s mouth falls open when I shove a rock the size of a goose egg on her finger. The thing is older than I am, some family relic that can be traced back over several generations of Cortland wives. It seemed like a better idea to whip out some old artifact than to pick out something new that I would just want to return when this is all over.

  Even Iain seems surprised when he sees it, eyebrows raised as I shove the thing on Zaya’s finger. He won’t say anything, not about this or anything else, but that doesn’t mean he approves. Iain lives in a house made of spun glass, so he isn’t about to go around throwing stones.

  I didn’t have the ring sized, and she has to squeeze her hand into a fist to keep it from slipping down to her knuckle.

  “It’s beautiful,” she murmurs, voice barely audible.

  As if it matters.

  But from the looks on their faces, I wonder if I might have made a mistake. Maybe I should have grabbed some gaudy thing from the jewelry store at the mall. I assumed it would be too much to pick out a ring specifically for her, but handing over a family heirloom might be sending a message I didn’t necessarily intend.

  Too late now.

  “You may now kiss the bride,” the justice intones softly, as if any part of this charade is worthy of gravity.

  Both of us freeze like we’ve been splashed with frigidly cold water and then dropped unceremoniously in Siberia.

  Zaya and I don’t kiss. Ever.

  I don’t kiss anyone.

  It started as an unspoken rule that grew into something infamous and is now a matter of gospel. Girls have placed bets in the past over whether they could get me to stick my tongue down their throats. Never happened.

  That show at the Founder’s Ball with Sophia was the notable exception, but I only did that because regardless of how much it skeeved me out, it was worth the benefits. The look on Zaya’s face when she caught sight of us will be my fondest memory for years to come.

  But this isn’t about jealousy or power plays.

  Even though there are only four of us standing here, and no one in the empty lawn chairs spread out on the grass, the silence stretches uncomfortably long. Iain vibrates slightly behind me, and I don’t need to look to know it’s from suppressed laughter.

  I turn to Zaya, assuming she’ll be looking down at her own feet in shame.

  Instead, she boldly stares right at me. The expression on her face is frankly exasperated, like I’m a little kid about to throw a fit because I don’t want to eat my vegetables. She doesn’t look afraid of my reaction, but like she pities me.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she says to the justice of the peace, dramatically rolling her eyes as if they’re both in on some joke. “We can just skip that part.”

  When the justice nods in sympathetic understanding, I want to punch the man right in the throat whom I begged to drive out here at dawn.

  Zaya is in my arms before the justice has a chance to pronounce us anything. She stares up at me in obvious shock, and I relish seeing that look on her face. I
give her half a second to pull away before I jump over my line in the sand and then blow up the whole beach.

  She doesn’t even look away.

  I kiss her like I want to suck the soul out of her body. If this were a real wedding, I’d be embarrassed by us both. But the only people here to see this are my best friend and a justice of the peace who probably got ordained over the Internet. No one who matters will ever find out about this, but I’m still determined to make it count.

  My mouth owns hers, a prelude to what I’m going to do with the rest of her body. Her mocking smile evaporates as quickly as it formed. The pressure of my mouth won’t let her do anything but part her lips with a gasp. I bend her over my arm, forcing her body backward in a way that looks romantic but can’t possibly be comfortable.

  If I let go of her, she’ll fall. I hope she’s smart enough to understand the lesson in that.

  Her small hands grip my shoulders. Nails dig into my skin even through my dress shirt, but I ignore them. My tongue forces its way halfway down her throat until I inhale the sound of protest. She tastes like resistance and spun sugar, even though I woke her up in the middle of the night.

  What started out as an attack quickly turns sensuous. I tease at her lips with mine, even as my tongue invades every corner of her mouth. I kiss her like she belongs to me.

  Because as of this moment, she does.

  When I finally release her, I have to hold on to her shoulders for a few seconds before Zaya can stand on her own. I make a point of keeping the look of triumph on my face when she looks up at me.

  She glares at me, but keeps her mouth clamped shut.

  The justice seems taken aback, but quickly recovers. He doesn’t meet my gaze as he fumbles for the bible in his hands.

  “I now pronounce you man and wife.”

  I can tell Zaya thinks I’m going to throw her over my shoulder and carry her off to the nearest bed when the ceremony ends.

  So I take her to breakfast instead.

  The lodge attached to the vineyard is empty of other guests, but the hostess at the front greets us warmly and seats us at a table all the way in the back.

  Surprise blooms on her face when the waiter places a prosecco and aperol spritzer in front of her before melting away into the background.

  She picks up the glass and takes a careful sip before screwing up her face and putting it back down again. “How much did you pay them not to card you?”

  I don’t bother to lie to her. “My father saved this place from bankruptcy with a low-interest loan a few years ago. I can do whatever I want here.”

  She gives me the same annoyed look she always does when I spout off something about my charmed life that she finds offensive.

  Spoiler alert, sweetheart: people only say that money can’t buy happiness when they don’t have enough of either. Sure, you can be sad and rich, but that is a damn sight better than being anything else and poor.

  “One of these days, you’re going to want something you can’t buy.” She picks up the croissant in front of her, then sets it down again without taking a bite.

  “Doubt it.”

  “Not everything is for sale.”

  “You were.”

  That reminder doesn’t sit well, if her glare is any indication. Then her face clears, and a mocking smile curves her lips.

  “Except you’re renting, not buying.” She smirks at me. “I wonder what people will say when they find out that Vin Cortland has to pay for it.”

  I want to shove something in that smart mouth. My dick, for starters.

  “People can say whatever the fuck they want,” I comment, keeping the anger at bay as I flip open my menu and pretended to study it. “And as soon as we’re done with breakfast, I plan to get my money’s worth and then some.”

  “There goes my appetite,” she sneers. The plate clatters on the linen tablecloth as she pushes it away.

  I just stare at her for a moment over the rim of my glass. We’re playing a game, I remind myself, and she doesn’t even know how many pieces I have on the board. “Finish your drink.”

  Still glaring at me, Zaya makes a point of pushing the cocktail away.

  Fine. I prefer her sober and clearheaded for what comes next. She needs to remember every second of me shoving my dick down her throat.

  I drain the drink for her and stand. “Let’s go. Our room should be ready, Mrs. Cortland.”

  She scowls but doesn’t respond.

  Our deal is done. She already signed the marriage certificate under my watchful eye, and it will get filed with the county clerk as soon as we return to Deception.

  Her hand hangs limp in mine as I pull her up from the table and toward the stairs. The ring on her finger digs painfully into my palm. I could have kept this marriage secret, signed some paperwork, and never told a soul about it, but instead I put the same ring on her finger that my many many times great-grandfather brought to the New World for his virgin bride.

  I marked her. Made it clear to the whole world that she belongs to me.

  It bothers me how much I like it.

  Twenty-Eight

  I always thought I would hate it if Vin ever kissed me.

  But I was wrong.

  He drags me up the wide wooden staircase with a single-minded intent, barely seeming to notice the beautiful furnishings or warm sunlight filtering through the bay windows that dominate the second floor. We pass about a half a dozen rooms but don’t see any other people as he tugs me toward a set of double doors at the far end for the hallway.

  Honeymoon Suite is etched onto a little gold placard above the lock.

  The doors swing open so violently I’m convinced the wood will crack.

  But as soon as we’re alone in the room, the frenzy fades away. He takes in the room with an unreadable expression, dropping my hand as if it burned him.

  A trail of red rose petals leads to a massive four poster bed. Rose petals are also scattered across the bedspread. Someone clearly butchered an entire garden to accomplish the task. An uncorked bottle of champagne sits in a bucket of ice on the nightstand next to a bowl of bright strawberries, the same red of the rose petals.

  With a disgusted sigh, Vin rips off his suit jacket and tosses it in the general direction of a nearby chair. “I’m taking a shower.”

  He doesn’t wait for me to answer and stalks away. I hear the slam of a door and the sound of rushing water.

  Gingerly, I sit on the edge of the bed and brush the petals to the floor. My gaze immediately moves to where my hands clench in my lap, drawn like a moth to a flame to the stone that has glittered on the edges of my vision since it was shoved on my finger.

  The ring I’m wearing feels a bit like having a cowbell hanging from my hand. Traditional setting. Clearly an antique, but polished until it shines. A diamond the size and shape of a robin’s egg.

  It’s the sort of ring that Mrs. Vin Cortland would wear, like a dozen women probably have before her.

  I’m surprised he would give me something so obviously expensive and clearly of sentimental value, though probably not to him. Vin doesn’t care about anything as silly as family legacies, but people are going to assume things when they see this ring on my finger. This isn’t a ring you use for a fake marriage that is only for the money.

  It’s the ring you give someone who will bear your name for the rest of your life.

  I had barely even read our prenuptial agreement, barely skimming it for mention of the $100,000 and that it would be mine after only a year. Part of me wanted to pour over it in great deal, just to annoy him. But what do I really have for him to take away? It seemed better to just get it all over with as quickly as possible.

  Iain hadn’t said so much as a word to me during the entire the ceremony and left as soon as it was over. I used to think that Vin’s best friend hated me as much as he did, but I realize now that Iain doesn’t care enough about anyone to hate them.

  The guy is practically a reptile.

  But even he see
med surprise when Vin pulled out the ring, his gaze resting on it for too long before his piercing gaze rose to my face. I don’t know what expression he saw there, but it made him shake his head and look away.

  I never thought I’d be on the same page as Iain McKinley, but here we are.

  Everything about this has been unnecessarily over the top. The grand gestures made sense in the beginning when Vin was trying to convince me to agree to this ridiculous arrangement. He didn’t have to drag me out to wine country and book us into a honeymoon suite.

  The skirt of my dress spreads out around me on the bed and I rub the smooth silk between my fingers before letting it drop. This isn’t fancy enough to technically be a wedding dress, but it is white and elegant in its simplicity, nothing that would embarrass if anyone saw us standing together on that altar. He didn’t have to do that either. He could have dragged me to the courthouse in sweatpants and still made it to school in time for first period. That would have amounted to exactly the same thing.

  Why would he do this?

  If I didn’t know Vin, if he were literally anyone else, then the only conclusion I could draw is that he cares about if I feel used. That he wanted to make some virtue out of this necessity so I won’t feel like a whore spreading her legs for a meal ticket.

  Because he cares.

  Except I know Vin doesn’t care about anyone but himself, and he hates me.

  But a guy who is only filled with hate wouldn’t take the time to pick out a dress or book a honeymoon suite. That guy wouldn’t give me a ring that should rightfully only be worn by the woman he actually wants to marry. For real.

  Forever.

  Ever since I agreed to this, he hasn’t just been nice. He has taken the time to figure out what I need before I’ve even asked for it. Anticipating me. Making this as painless as his prickly personality will allow instead of robbing me of any dignity I have left like I assumed he would.

  I can almost convince myself we could be something more than we are.

  A strange feeling builds in my chest, pressure that makes my heart ache. There has always been a link between Vin and I, but until this very moment I imagined it as some sickly and twisted thing that burrowed into my chest like a knife.