Brutal Prince (Brutal Birthright)

First, I need a little refreshment to get me through this pony show.

I shake off my father and brothers, heading straight to the bar. Shoreside may be a bit snooty, but it’s got a fun resort kinda vibe, and they’re famous for their summery cocktails. Especially the Kentucky Kiss, which is bourbon, lemon, fresh strawberry purée, and a splash of maple syrup, poured over ice with a dumb little paper umbrella on top.

But when I order it, the bartender shakes his head regretfully.

“Sorry, no Kentucky Kisses.”

“What about a strawberry daiquiri?”

“No can do. We can’t make anything with strawberries.”

“Did your truck get hijacked on the way up from Mexico?”

“Nah,” he fills a shaker with ice and starts making a martini for somebody else while I scan down the drink menu. “It’s just for this party—I guess the dude is allergic?”

“What dude?”

“The one gettin married.”

I set my menu down, alight with interest.

“He is?”

“Yeah, his mom was makin a big deal out of it. Sayin no strawberries for anybody in the whole place. Like someone’s gonna try and hide one i

n his drink.”

Well, now they might . . .

“Very interesting,” I say. “I’ll take one of those martinis, then.”

He pours the chilled vodka into a glass and slides it over to me.

“Here, take this one. I can make another.”

“Thanks,” I say, holding it up in a cheers motion.

I leave him a five-dollar bill as a tip, tickled to think that the political robot has a weakness after all. Red shiny kryptonite. Another thing to needle him about.

That’s my plan, until I actually see Callum.

He really does remind me of a vampire. Lean, pale, dark suit, eyes that are inhumanly blue. An expression both keenly sharp and highly disdainful. It must be difficult for him to try to be charming for his work. I wonder if he watches actual humans and tries to emulate them. If he does, he’s failing miserably. Everyone around him is chatting and laughing, while he’s gripping his drink like he wants to crush it in his hand. He’s got large hands, long, slim fingers.

When he catches sight of me, he shows some emotion at last—pure, unadulterated hatred. It burns out of him, in a straight line directly into me.

I walk right up to him, bold as brass, so he knows he can’t intimidate me.

“Better watch it, my love,” I whisper to him. “We’re supposed to be celebrating our engagement. Yet you look completely miserable.”

“Aida Gallo,” he hisses back at me. “I’m relieved to see that you’re at least aware of the concept of dressing up, even if your execution is trash.”

I keep my smile firmly plastered in place, not letting him see that stung a little. I hadn’t realized until I walked right up to him how much he was going to tower over me, even with these stupid heels on. I’m kind of wishing I hadn’t stood so close. But I’m not going to take a step back now. That would show weakness.

And anyway, I’m used to scary-looking men, thanks to my brothers. In fact, Callum Griffin doesn’t have any of the scars or permanently swollen knuckles that hint at what my brothers get up to. His hands are perfectly smooth. He’s just a rich kid, after all. I have to remember that.

His eye is drawn to the showy ring on my left hand. I put it on for the first time tonight, and I already feel strangled by it. I hate what it means, and I hate how it draws attention. Callum’s lips almost disappear as they tighten and blanch at the sight of it. He looks mildly nauseated.

Well, good. I’m glad it makes him suffer, too.