Brutal Prince (Brutal Birthright)

“Well here’s something you should know about me,” Imogen says, her voice sharper than the ladies of the Country Club have ever heard it. “As long as you’re part of this family, I will help you and protect you. But everyone here pulls their weight. We work together, for the betterment of our empire. If you threaten what we’re building, or if you endanger any of the family, when you lay your head down that night, you’ll never lift it up again. Do you understand me?”

Ha. That’s the Imogen Griffin I was looking for. The steel behind the socialite.

“I understand the concept of family loyalty,” I tell her.

Seeing myself as part of the Griffin family—that’s another thing entirely.

Imogen stares me down a minute longer, then nods.

“I’ll show you your room,” she says.

I follow her up the wide, curving staircase to the upper level.

I’ve been here once before. I already know what lies to the left: the girls’ rooms, and the master suite belonging to Imogen and Fergus.

Imogen turns right instead. We pass the library, which gives no hint of smoky ruin. I can’t resist peeking inside. Looks like Imogen already renovated, replacing the carpet and repainting the walls. They’re pale blue now, with shutters over the windows instead of curtains. Even the fireplace got a facelift, with a new white stone facade and a glass enclosure for the grate.

“No more accidents,” Imogen says drily.

“Much safer,” I agree, not sure whether to laugh or be embarrassed.

We walk down a long hallway to another private suite, similar in size to the master. When Imogen opens the doors, I realize we’re in Callum’s room. It’s got exactly the sort of dark, masculine decor and attention to order that I would expect of him. It smells entirely of man—cologne, aftershave, soap, and a hi

nt of his skin from the bed that hasn’t been slept in. It makes little goosebumps rise up on my forearms.

I was expecting the Griffins to give me my own room. Sort of like royals in the olden days, living in their separate suites. I thought, at worst, Callum would have to visit me in the night now and then.

But, apparently, they actually expect us to share a room. To sleep side by side in that wide, low bed. Brushing our teeth at the same sink in the morning.

This is so fucking weird.

Callum and I haven’t had one conversation that wasn’t furious or threatening. How am I ever going to close my eyes at night?

“I’m sure there’s plenty of space for your clothes,” Imogen says, eyeing my small suitcase. “Will your father be sending over the rest of your things?”

“Yeah,” I say.

It’s just a couple of boxes. I don’t have that much stuff. Plus, I didn’t want to bring anything personal over here. My tiny little christening dress, my mother’s wedding ring, old photo albums—all that can stay in the attic at my father’s house. There’s no reason to move it.

“When will . . . Callum be back?” I ask Imogen hesitantly.

“He’s here right now,” she says. “Resting down by the pool.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Shit.

I was hoping for a longer reprieve before I saw him.

“I’ll leave you to get settled in,” Imogen says.

It doesn’t take long to stash away my toiletries and clothes. Callum considerately cleared out the space under one of the sinks in the bathroom, and in half of the massive walk-in closet.

He really didn’t need to leave one whole side empty. My clothes look ludicrously lonely, dangling in the space.

Not that Callum has that many clothes himself. He’s got a dozen identical white shirts, three blue, suits ranging from charcoal to black, and a similarly uniform casual wardrobe. His clothes are hung with robotic precision.

“Oh my god,” I whisper, as I touch the sleeve of one of three identical gray cashmere sweaters. “I’ve married a psychopath.”