Page 67 of Brutal Prince

Indi

Ieventually do find remnants of an earlier, happier time in Marigold’s house. For reasons I can’t quite explain to myself yet, I don’t tell her about the intruder. Instead, I claim I saw a spider terrifying enough to make me run wet and partially naked from the bathroom.

She went to bed still wearing a grimace. That had been for the almost empty bottle of wine she spotted in the kitchen though, not my tale of arachnophobic horror.

Briar’s blue eyes kept me awake for an hour before I abandoned the concept of sleep altogether.

Intent on getting some warm milk, I head down to the kitchen. I walk past a hallway that heads to the back of the house, one Marigold never bothered to include in her initial tour. I always thought the room went to a study or a smaller sitting room, perhaps, so I never even bothered investigating.

The door’s locked. But there’s a hallway closet nearby I hadn’t seen before. I open the closet and rummage through the shelves.

I find a few photo albums and some dilapidated sporting equipment — a baseball bat and mitts, faded roller skates, a scratched bicycle helmet.

Weighing the bat in my hand, I purse my lips at its solidity. Then I grasp it tight and take a swing at an invisible enemy.

Not a bad self-defense weapon. Good to keep close at hand, should a certain Prince decide to sneak into my fucking house again. Fuck knows if I’d even use it. I should at least pretend that the fact that he’s not just a rapist and a murderer, but a creeping tom to boot, scares the living shit out of me.

Because it really should.

Somehow though, it doesn’t.

I guess after all the shit life’s dealt me recently, a run-in with a young Ted Bundy seems tame in comparison.

* * *

Briar

Marcus’s SUVis still out front when I finally get home. Inside, the mansion is quiet as the grave.

I find him in the pool house, immersing himself in weed and video games. He doesn’t even hear me come in — with such a dank haze in the room it doesn’t surprise me at all.

There’s beer inside the fridge — I take out two cans and bring them over to the sofa.

Marcus twitches when I move into his peripheral view, and then pauses his game and settles back on the sofa as if getting ready for battle.

I hold out the can until he takes it, and then I lower myself onto the seat with a sigh.

Marcus scans me with black, unreadable eyes, pops open his can, and says, “The fuck happened to your shoes?”

I laugh and wave away the question. Taking a sip of beer, I sit forward and grab a joint roach from the ashtray. I’m still hunting for a lighter when Marcus holds out a hand and flicks on his Zippo.

“Look, man, about earlier…” I trail off, expecting him to stop me, but he just watches with dead eyes and a line for a mouth.

“Yeah?” he prompts after a few seconds.

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. “Told you, that girl’s got you fucking obsessed.” He narrows his eyes. “Where’ve you been?”

“Sorry, love, I meant to call,” I say dryly. “Time just got away from me.”

He snorts and returns to his game. “You met up with her, didn’t you?”

I turn to him, wide-mouthed with disbelief. “The fuck, Mar—?”

“Did you at least fuck her this time, get it out of your system?”

I don’t know if it’s because I still have way too much alcohol in my system, but déjà vu slams into me like a glass door.

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