Brutal Prince (Brutal Birthright)

I head into the theater, settling down in my favorite seat in the middle row.

Riona’s a bitch. Her opinion means less than nothing to me.

But it keeps bothering at me, all the same. I can’t even pay attention to the dulcet tones of Sir Ian McKellen, my favorite old-man crush.

The truth is, I do feel abandoned. I miss my father. I miss my brothers. I miss my own house, which was old and shabby and stuffed with ancient furniture, but I knew every bit of it. It was safe and comfortable, with memories attached to every surface.

I eat my popcorn without tasting any of it, until I can finally lose myself in the fantasy world of elves and dwarves and good-hearted Hobbits.

Around 6:30 p.m., I figure I should start getting ready. I shut the movie off and head upstairs to see what monstrosity Callum has laid out on the bed for me.

Sure enough, when I unzip the garment bag, I see a tight, silver-beaded dress that looks stiff and dowdy and fucking awful. Right as I’m wrinkling my nose at it, Callum comes into the room, already dressed in a spotless tux, his dark hair combed back and still damp from his shower.

“Why aren’t you dressed?” he says angrily. “We’re supposed to be leaving in twenty-five minutes. Jesus Christ, you haven’t even done your hair yet.”

“I’m not wearing this,” I tell him flatly.

“Yes, you are.” He scowls at me. “Put it on. Immediately.”

“Did you steal this out of Imogen’s closet?”

“No,” he snarls. “I bought it specifically for you.”

“Good. Then you can return it.”

“Not until after you wear it tonight.”

“Not happening,” I tell him with a toss of my head.

“Get in the shower,” he barks. “We’re going to be late.”

I walk toward the shower, moving deliberately slowly just to annoy him. I don’t need more than half an hour to get ready; I’m not a fucking pageant queen.

Still, I’m tempted to stand under the warm water forever just to let him stew. I’m definitely not wearing that dress—I can wear the yellow one that I wore to the engagement party. Though Callum will probably pop a blood vessel at the idea of a person wearing the same outfit two entire times.

When I step out of the shower, I see that he picked up the clothes I left in a crumpled heap on the bathroom floor. Nice.

I wrap a big, fluffy towel around myself—say what you will about the Griffins, at least they have excellent taste in linens—then I stroll into the closet to find my dress.

Instead, I see that my entire side of the closet has been completely cleared out. Empty hangers dangle at odd angles—some of them still swaying from the wild stripping that occurred here.

I pull open the drawers—empty too. He’s taken every last stitch of my clothing, down to my underwear.

When I turn around, Callum’s broad shoulders are filling the doorway, arms crossed over his chest and smirk on his handsome face.

“Guess it’s the dress or nothing,” he says.

“I pick nothing, then,” I reply, dropping the towel in a puddle around my feet and folding my arms across my chest in imitation of his.

“Understand this,” Callum says quietly. “You’re coming to that dinner tonight, even if I have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you like a caveman. You can be wearing the dress when I do that, or I swear to god, Aida, I will haul you there naked and make you sit in your seat in front of everyone. Don’t fucking test me.”

“That’ll embarrass you more than me,” I snap, but I can feel the color rising in my cheeks. Callum’s eyes look wilder than I’ve ever seen them. I actually think he’s serious. That’s how determined he is to bend me to his will over this stupid dress.

The seconds tick by between us. Seconds that are making us later and later for this fundraiser, but Callum isn’t budging out of the doorway. This is the hill he’s choosing to die on: that ugly beaded dress.

“Fine!” I bark at last. “I’ll put the stupid dress on.”

The smirk on his face makes me want to take it back immediately. Or else punch him in the eye. If I have to go to the dinner in that lame-ass dress, then he can go there with a nice fucking shiner.