Page 39 of Wicked Spite
There’s a moment where I almost forget the fucked-up situation I am in. My gaze flickers from Penn to Iris and Oakley, who are shifting uncomfortably in their seats with a shared unease.
“Everything okay?” I ask them, my brow furrowing as I notice their tense body language.
“I just saw Mr. Blackwood’s car pull up to the valet,” Iris mutters, casting a nervous glance toward the entrance.
“You’re in for a real treat. Your father-in-law is a super fun time,” Oakley adds with an anxious laugh that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
As if summoned by the mere mention of his name, Mr. Blackwood strides into the restaurant, his cold gaze sweeping over the room before settling on our table. A shiver runs down my spine, and I can’t help but feel like a lamb surrounded by wolves. But this lamb has teeth.
“Evening, everyone,” he greets us, his voice as smooth as ice. He takes his seat at the head of the table, radiating an aura of power and control that sends another chill through me. He reminds me of my dad, which is never a good thing.
“Nice of you to join us, Robert. Just how did you find out about this dinner?” Penn says, his tone casual as he twirls a fork in his hand.
“Now, son. I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Mr. Blackwood replies with a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
As the conversation around the table resumes, I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. I glance at Iris and Oakley, who offer me weak smiles, clearly still on edge themselves. I don’t know what Mr. Blackwood has planned or how this night will unfold, but one thing is certain: I won’t let him intimidate me or anyone else at this table.
I look back at Penn, whose hand now rests protectively on my thigh beneath the tablecloth. He gives me a reassuring squeeze, as if sensing my thoughts, which takes me way off guard more so than any of his other antics.
“Whatever happens tonight, I’ll handle it,” he assures me, his fingers tracing small circles on my thigh. Does he think I’m so starved for affection that the smallest show of care will have me folding for him?
“Have you handled things with… this one?” Mr. Blackwood demands, his ice-cold gaze zeroing in on me. The question hangs heavy in the air, thick with insinuation and threat. Ah, so Daddy Blackwood was behind my forced marriage of utter inconvenience.
Penn doesn’t miss a beat, unfazed by his father’s menacing aura. He takes my hand, lifting it to showcase my wedding ring, and confidently states, “It’s been handled.”
“Is that so?” Mr. Blackwood replies, his voice dripping with skepticism. It’s clear he’s testing our resolve, trying to exploit any cracks in our united front.
“Would you expect anything less from me?” Penn retorts, his tone daring his father to challenge him further.
I take a deep breath, willing myself to maintain my composure despite the tension clawing at my chest.
“Interesting,” Mr. Blackwood muses, his eyes narrowing as if attempting to decipher some hidden meaning between the two. It’s like they speak their own language in silence and that fucking terrifies me more than anything else that Penn has done. “Well then, I suppose congratulations are in order.”
“Thank you,” I shoot back, my voice laced with sarcasm. “Your approval means the world to us.”
“Watch your tongue, Miss St. Pierre,” Mr. Blackwood warns, his voice as sharp as a knife.
“Or what?” I challenge, tilting my chin up defiantly. “Why is it that my father is so important to you? Does he have something on you? I literally just want to be left alone; I have no intention of uttering the name Blackwood even if someone tries to waterboard it out of me. It would be more pleasant than whatever this is.” I hold my hand up and pull on my ring, showing him the spikes that won’t allow it to slide off, trying my hardest not to wince. I suspect Mr. Blackwood will pounce if he smells blood.
“I’ll handle it,” Penn murmurs warningly, squeezing my hand beneath the table. Something about Mr. Blackwood ignites a spark of rebellion within me, urging me to push back against his authority.
“Enough,” Mr. Blackwood snaps, his patience wearing thin.
“Is it enough? My whole life signed away because your dipshit sons don’t know the meaning of discrete. Who doesthatin public?” I reply, my voice a honeyed venom. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint Daddy Dearest now, would we?”
“Wife,” Penn whispers again, the low rumble of his voice sending a shiver down my spine. I can feel his concern, yet I also sense the smoldering arousal simmering beneath the surface.
“Fine,” I relent, meeting Penn’s gaze for a brief moment before turning back to Mr. Blackwood. “We’ll play nice, won’t we, psycho? And if we want to be technical, Mr. Blackwood…my name isn’t St. Pierre. It’s fucking Blackwood.”
Chapter 15
Penn
Ishove the door open, and it groans like it’s pissed too. My room—no, our room now—is a disaster zone. Reagan’s shit is everywhere. Makeup scattered across my dresser, sketchpads overflowing from the desk, clothes draped over every surface. Panties hanging off my chair, shirts balled up on the floor, everything she owns spilling out of the closet and dresser I cleared out for her. Christ, it’s only been a week. How much shit did I pack for her? No way was all of this in that small ass apartment.
I didn’t even bother with her furniture; left it to rot in a storage unit. Clearly, she was really torn up about it because she has yet to fucking ask about a single piece of it.
Reagans in front of the mirror, putting the final touches on her makeup, smoky eyes and blood-red lips. My dick twitches. I watch her hips sway as she slips into a tight black skirt, the lace trim of her panties peeking out. Fucking tease.
