Page 91 of Necessary Cruelty

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I can tellZaya 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.

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