Page 48 of Bad Blood
From my slicked back dark hair to the five o’clock shadow that never lasts a minute past six, Valentin Carrera’s image is etched across every line and crevice of my face like cursed stone.
It’s a realization that sours my mood even more.
“Fuck destiny,” I mutter as the elevator doors slide open, revealing my devil’s paradise.
“Thalia?” I call out, hearing nothing but my own echo bouncing off the black walls. “Thalia Santiago,” I repeat, every vowel in her last name like a mouthful of broken glass. “Get out here now. It’s bad luck to arrive late to your own wedding.”
As far as I’m concerned, all weddings are bad luck...period.
“I’m marryingyou,” a voice calls out. “Obviously, Lady Luck already slammed the door in my face.”
I scan a restless gaze across the room, only to have my eyes assaulted by what can only be described as a visual blitzkrieg.
“What. The. Fuck?”
Thalia is standing on the bottom step of the spiral staircase, her body draped across the coiled banister like a serpent. Cradled in her hands is a bouquet of long green stems, every single one plucked clean of their petals.
And that’s only the beginning… While I spent the day ensuring every detail of my plan was executed to my specification, this crazy woman has gone fuckingEdward Scissorhandson a twenty-thousand-dollar wedding gown.
What used to be a full skirt with a long, ornate train now looks like a demented cocktail dress. Miles of smooth, golden legs pave a deadly pathway from her ivory Louboutins to the jagged material that’s now barely covering her ass.
At least she’s wearing the black bustier I gave her—as a fucking tube top.
However, it’s her face that causes my jaw to drop. Not only does her makeup look like she fell into a box of sixty-four count crayons, but she’s also fashioned her hair into pigtails.
Goddamn pigtails.
I stepped out of the elevator expecting to find Grace Kelly and got bitchslapped by Harley Quinn, instead.
“Do you like it?” she says, peeling herself off the railing and sauntering toward me with a dramatic spin. “I wanted all the joy I felt inside at becoming your wife to be reflected on the outside.” A wicked smile dances across her bright purple painted lips. “Now, I’m not one to brag, but I think I nailed it.”
If I wasn’t so pissed, I’d be impressed at the steelcojoneson this woman.
“Younailedit, all right,” I say dryly. “Straight through the part of your brain that controls your common sense.” I grab at her arm to stop her incessant twirling. “Is this your idea of a joke?”
“Oh, Santi...I rarely joke,” she says, pleased as hell with herself as she repeats my own words from earlier.
“You look like a psychopath.”
“Oh no!” Gasping dramatically, Thalia presses a hand over her heart. “My betrothed is displeased. But I workedsohard to look the part of aCarrera.”
“Watch it,” I warn, inhaling the string of Spanish obscenities resting on my tongue. Her little insults are becoming a big problem—one I plan to addressafterthe ceremony.
I inherited my father’s temper, but I also know when to pick my battles. Thalia’s act of defiance was a commendable effort, but a complete waste of energy. This woman thinks that by shredding her gown and then covering it with the bustier like a confused whore in a brothel, I’ll assume she’sloca en la cabezaand send her on her merry way?
Hell no.
Thaliawantsme to lose my temper so she can hate me even more. Shewantsmy anger. Shewantsmy hate and her fear all twisted up and displayed in all its fucked-up glory.
And she almost had it.
My initial instinct is to drag her back into the ensuite bathroom and force her to change after scrubbing all that shit off her face.But why?Thisisn’t a real wedding—at least not in any traditional sense. It’s nothing more than a binding agreement, a gold shackle that ensures her a front row seat to her family’s destruction.
If Thalia wants to walk down the aisle dressed like a circus freak, so be it. Her act of rebellion is nothing more than an eyesore.
The Colombianprincesais about to get a lesson in playing with fire.
“It’s short,” I note, my eyes tracing the uneven cut barely grazing the tops of her thighs. “I thought I told you to stop pussy-flashing my men,muñeca?”
