Brutal Prince (Brutal Birthright)

It was pointless. Papa is stubborn as a mule. A Sicilian mule that only eats thistles and will kick you in the teeth if you get too close. Once his mind is made up, not even the trump of judgment day could change it.

Honestly, Armageddon would be a welcome respite from what’s actually about to happen.

The very first day after the deal is struck, I get a message from Imogen Griffin telling me about some engagement party on Wednesday night. An engagement party! As if there’s something to celebrate here, and not just a slow-motion train wreck in process.

She also shipped me a ring in a box.

I fucking hate it, of course. It’s a big old square diamond on a bedazzled band, chunky and sure to bang against everything. I keep it shut up in its box on my nightstand, because I have no intention of wearing it before I absolutely have to.

The only good thing in this mountain of shit is that at least Sebastian is doing a little better. He had to have surgery to reconstruct his ACL, but we got the best doctor in the city, the same one who fixed Derrick Rose’s knee. So, we’re hoping he’ll be up and around again before long.

In the meantime, I’ve been going to the hospital to visit him every day. I brought him all his favorite snacks—Reese’s Peanut-butter Cups, string cheese, and salted cashews—and also his schoolbooks.

“Have you ever opened these before?” I tease him, laying the textbooks on his nightstand.

“Once or twice,” he says, grinning from the hospital bed.

The little nighty-thing they gave him to wear is ridiculously tiny on his giant body. His long legs stretch out from under it, his bandaged knee propped up with a pillow.

“You don’t walk around in that thing, do you?” I ask him.

“Only when the hot nurse is on duty.” He winks.

“Gross,” I say.

“You better get used to all things romantic,” Sebastian says. “Since you’re about to be a blushing bride . . .”

“Don’t joke about that,” I snap at him.

Seb gives me a sympathetic look.

“Are you worried?” he says.

“No!” I say at once, though it’s a complete lie. “They’re the ones that should be worried. Callum, especially. I’m gonna strangle him in his sleep the first chance I get.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Sebastian warns me. “This is serious, Aida. It’s not like your semester in Spain or that internship you took with Pepsi. You can’t just skip out of this if you don’t like it.”

“I know that,” I tell him. “I know exactly how trapped I’m about to be.”

Sebastian frowns, hating to see me upset.

“Have you talked to Papa?” he says. “Maybe if you tell him—”

“It’s pointless,” I interrupt. “Dante argued with him all night. He’s not going to listen to anything I have to say.”

I look at Sebastian’s knee, bandaged to twice its normal size and bruised all the way up the thigh.

“Anyway,” I say quietly, “I brought this on myself. Papa’s right—I made this mess, and now I’ve got to fix it.”

“Don’t be a martyr just cause my leg got fucked,“ Sebastian says. “You marrying that psychopath isn’t going to fix it.”

“It won’t fix your knee,” I say, “but it might stop anything else from happening.”

There’s silence between us for a minute, and then I say, “I’m really sorry that—”

“Don’t apologize again,” he says. “I mean it. First off, it wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes, it was.”