Page 101 of Bad Little Bride

Enzo

“I made a mistake.”

“No shit.”

My head whips Mino’s way and he laughs. “Hey, I told you to put a future date on your contract. Let her finish the Elite program and have her come home graduation night.”

“And I told you that was a stupid fucking suggestion.” As if I would wait two years to claim what I worked so hard for.

“And look at you now.” Mino grins. “Of course, the wife of Enzo Fikile shoots for the shit of it. Just a fun, simple way to get her point across.” He chuckles.

A small smile breaks through my concern. “A natural little empress,” I murmur.

“So what are you going to do?”

I stare at the ripples in the water below, slowly pushing off the banister. “What I should have done the day she arrived.”

Mino grabs my arm, halting me, and I can see what he wants to say in his eyes, though he hesitates to speak the words aloud.

“Just say it, Mino.”

“I know she’s your wife, but she’s angry and she’s told you point-blank if she could go back, she would.”

“She won’t.”

Mino regards me a long moment. “What makes you so sure?”

“Because her eyes don’t lie.” I glance at my reflection in the tall windows, staring at her lips marked into my skin. “Even when her words do.”

She wants me. Wants this, but my little bride is afraid, and fear is not something she’s accustomed to.

Boston Revenaw was born into this world and raised a warrior princess, the importance of bravery and courage written into the very code of her DNA.

Fear? Fear wasn’t allowed, and I can’t even say for certain she realizes that’s part of what she’s feeling, but it is.

My wife is afraid of nothing but fears the thought of losingme.

That’s not okay with me.

With that thought, I leave Mino sitting there and head into the kitchen.

Based on her typical routine, she won’t wake for another two hours, so I take my time, cutting up her favorite fruits and sneaking some protein-infused sweet cream in the center of the strawberries.

I smirk to myself. If she won’t eat the nutrients she needs, the staff and I will just have to get creative.

Stepping up to the stove, I put the saucepan over the flame, quickly adding water and sugar before giving it a good stir and waiting for it to come to a slow boil. Turning back to the fruits, I plate what I have while I wait out the fifteen or so minutes for the sugar to caramelize.

Just as I’ve got the berries piled, the mixture turns the perfect golden brown, so I remove it from the heat, adding heavy cream, a dash of salt, followed by vanilla extract to finish it off. Igive it a few moments to cool and add two Boston-sized servings into the pourer.

“Mr. Fikile, you have perfected the recipe.” Fredrick, our personal chef, walks in, stepping right up to the sink to wash his hands. “It only took, what…fifty burnt batches to get it right?”

“Funny man, Fredrick. I only burnt about fifteen, and that was all in the first week she returned home.”

My chef laughs at me, and I ignore him as I step back, looking down at the plate with a frown.

Fredrick walks around then, scrunching his nose at my arrangement, which admittedly, is nothing more than a mountain of strawberries with cream and blueberries in a distorted circle around it. “Allow me to do the plating, sir?”

“I guess I’m shit for the arts, aren’t I?” I move over, allowing him to slide in.

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