Page 51 of Prince of Control
Another student tries to get past, but I’m blocking the door.
“Excuse me,” he murmurs, head down.
I release the lock on my muscles, smoothly moving into the classroom and taking my seat in the front of the room where I have the perfect vantage point to stare the motherfucker down.
No one screws with my wife.
Not if they want to live.
Chapter Fourteen
Lara
By Friday, all of campus is talking about the Back to School party at The Gulag–a.k.a., Baranov House. Baron’s been in full pakhan mode all evening–giving quiet orders and directions to everyone who lives in the house as they make preparations for the party.
Except for me. He seems to have no expectations of me, other than that I bear his last name and am naked beneath him every night. I can’t complain about the latter. It’s been mind-blowing.
Baron apparently already updated the school’s records with my new last name because I discovered yesterday that my record changed in my student dashboard.
Earlier today, when my French Lit professor called out “Baranov” to quiz me on the reading, the entire class turned to stare at me. Afterward, three young women stopped me to ask if I was related to Baron. I took a bit of smug satisfaction in their shocked disappointment when I said I was his wife.
“You’re kidding, right?” One of the women had looked at the others. “She’s just joking.” She looked back at me. “You’re his sister. I heard he has a sister on campus this year.”
“That’s Lili,” I explained patiently. “I’m Lara. His wife.” I held up my ring.
Their expressions of jealous horror were epic.
Part of me can’t believe I’m actually proud of it–that I’m showing the ring off for social collateral. But Baron is an apex predator on campus, and so long as I’m forced to live here as his wife, I might as well reap the benefits.
The doors to the party open at nine, and it’s nine now. I stand in front of the mirror and survey my outfit. I don’t know what Americans wear to college parties, but I went for French nightclub wear–sexy, but not too slutty, or the club doormen won’t let you in.
I’m in a strapless black mini-dress that hugs my curves with a loose silver shell belt around my hips and a pair of black patent leather platform heels. I pulled my hair up to bring attention to my bare shoulders and decolletage. I went a bit heavier on the make-up, drawing cat-eyes with black liner and using a smokey grey powder to make the blue of my eyes pop. I dot a little berry lipgloss on my lips and rub them together.
I don’t know what to expect, but I sense this party is going to be interesting, to say the least.
I open the bedroom door and walk down the stairs in my heels. The lights are off, except for mood lighting–a strip of tiny white lights line the stairs, so I can see where I’m going. They’ve probably always been there; I just didn’t see them before. Music fills the house. It has a ska-reggae swing–upbeat but not dancey. It’s probably just the warm-up music.
Downstairs, the house has been transformed. The lights are off except for the colored dance lights beaming on a disco ball hung from the ceiling. I don’t know where the furniture went, but the living room is now completely empty and open to serve as a dance floor. Anya sits on a bar stool behind a DJ booth in the corner with a set of headphones around her neck. She gives me a wave when she sees me, and I wave back.
Baron swiftly walks through the living room giving orders although I don’t see anyone around him and can’t figure out who he’s talking to until I realize he has an ear piece in.
Anya lifts her chin in my direction, and Baron swivels. I watch as he stops short, transforming from the cool, calculating leader to a hot-blooded male. “Fuuuuuck.”
Female satisfaction floods through me, reminding me that even in the darkest hours of the patriarchy, female erotic power is a stronger force than anything men could create. It’s why they were so afraid of us. Why they sought to capture, contain, and own us.
“Your comms is on, Baron,” Anya reminds him.
Baron reaches up and touches his ear, probably flicking off the device, and walks over to meet me at the bottom of the stairs.
Without saying a word, he crowds into me, pressing me up against the wall. His body heat registers beneath the fabric of my dress. His thumb brushes across my cheek, fingers sliding into my hair.
“My wife is so fucking hot.”
He seems to love calling me his wife. The words still shock me every time I hear them, but it’s hard to object when his obvious appreciation drips from his voice.
He’s in a pale pink button-down shirt, unbuttoned at the throat and rolled up to his forearms. He looks more like a billionaire CEO about to get on his yacht than a college student, and he wears confidence as easily as the expensive clothes.
He covers my mouth in a possessive, claiming kiss. “What am I going to do tonight with you looking like that?” He leans his forehead against mine. “You look good enough to eat, and I have to run this fucking party.”
