Page 36 of Wicked Spite
“My art classes,” she demands, like a queen making a decree. “What about them?”
“Behave yourself, and I’ll have admin put you in any fucking art class you want. Hell, I’ll pay for private lessons if that’s what gets you off. Cost isn’t an issue.” Her stunned silence is golden. We take seats at the back, and I lean in close, savoring the smell of her frustration.
“By the way, dinner with my brothers tonight. They don’t know about you, but I may have let it slip that I was getting married. So, won’t be a complete blindside.”
“Fucking great,” she mutters, crossing her arms like she’s trying to shield herself from all the bullshit I’ve dragged her into.
“Fine, be like that,” I say under my breath, scrollingthrough my own phone, the tension between us thick enough to choke on. I finally break the silence.
“Stay here. I gotta take a leak,” I growl, tossing my phone onto the desk. Reagan doesn’t even look up, just stares daggers into whatever miserable abyss she’s conjuring behind those honey-brown eyes of hers.
“Yeah, yeah. How fucking charming?” she mutters, arms crossed tight enough to crack ribs. She really needs to loosen the fuck up.
“Class starts in five minutes. Don’t fucking move,” I tell her, my voice low and commanding.
Her eyes shoot daggers at me, but she stays put. Good girl.
The bathroom reeks of bleach, so at least it’s semi-clean. I relieve my fucking bladder because I drank too much fucking coffee this morning before tucking little Penn back into my pants.
I stop and wash my hands because if you aren’t washing your hands after holding your dick over a urinal, you’re fucking nasty. The mirror shows me a grin that says I’m in control. But beneath it, there’s always that itch of madness threatening to break loose. I splash some cold water on my face, trying to drown that feeling. I’m always feeling like my sanity hangs by one frayed thread.
When I return to the classroom, I see him—some blond, lanky motherfucker leaning over Reagan. His voice is too loud, his smile too wide. He’s got one hand on her chair, the other gesturing wildly like he’s auditioning to be the next fucking college death statistic.
“Hey there, you’re hot for a tall, gothic bitch.” he oozes, practically dripping sleaze.
I move fast, crossing the room in three long strides. Myhand clamps down on his shoulder with enough force to make him wince.
“Sorry, Chad Michael Murray,” I purr, voice low and dangerous, “but that’s Mrs. fucking Blackwood to you. “
He tries to brush me off, but I tighten my grip, digging my fingers in until he yelps. “Mention my fucking wife’s height, style, or really anything again and you’ll be feeding my pet pigs,” I whisper, letting just enough of the psycho slip through to send him stumbling away.
Reagan watches the whole thing with an expression that’s half-amused, half-annoyed. When blondie finally scurries off, she turns those piercing eyes on me.
“Is this what I have to look forward to all the time?” she asks, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Of fucking course,” I reply, sliding back into my seat with a smirk. “The sooner everyone learns not to talk, touch, or breathe near my fucking wife, the more likely they are to keep all their fingers and toes.”
“Great,” she mutters, rolling her eyes.
“Chin up, hellfire. Consider me your own personal fucking pit bull. Everyone loves a fucking dog.” Reagan may hate this, but goddamn if it doesn’t make everything more interesting.
Professor Morgan walks in before she can say anything fucking snarky back to me, and I divert all my attention to him.
Pointless to attend this class and not pay attention.
Chapter 14
Reagan
The expensive restaurant buzzes with life as I step inside, the dim lighting casting shadows across the sea of faces. My gaze sweeps over the room, searching for Penn.
My loving husband.
I’m doing my part, showing up to meet his brothers. I hope he plays nice because I doubt they know he married me while I was unconscious. I spot them at a large table near the back, their boisterous laughter adding to the atmosphere. His brothers are nearly as big as Penn is, and they look just as full of themselves as him, too. They probably do know he drugged me and is holding me hostage. As I confidently stride over, my combat boots clicking against the floor, I catch Penn’s hazel eyes glued to me. A playful smirk dances on my lips, and he grins in response, adjusting his baseball cap with a casual flip of his hand. Everyone else in this restaurant is dressed to the nines, but clearly the dress code does not apply to theBlackwoods.
“Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” Penn drawls, his voice smooth and teasing. “You’re late, Reagan.”
“Me? Late?” I feign shock, eyes widening dramatically. “That’s because I didn’t want to come.” The sarcasm drips from my words, and the others chuckle.
