Brutal Prince (Brutal Birthright)

I hated that ring when I first got it. I don’t mind it so much anymore. It’s kind of pretty, how it sparkles in the sunshine. And it doesn’t look as strange and false to me as it did at first.

I’m about to slip it in my pocket for safekeeping, but Oliver says, “No. Give it to me.”

I don’t want to hand it over to him. It feels like a betrayal. But if I refuse, it’s not like I can stop him wrenching it out of my hand. So I pass it to him, silently.

There’s a tool bag sitting on the kitchen floor, next to a slightly paler patch of wall that probably had water damage, until someone fixed it.

Oliver opens the bag, taking out a hammer. He sets my ring on the kitchen countertop. Then, like he did to my phone, he smashes it over and over again with the hammer.

The metal bends, the claws coming loose around the diamonds and the stones scattering. Still he keeps hitting it, until the band is twisted and ruined, and the main stone has rolled away.

It hurts more than I expect, seeing that ring destroyed.

But what really disturbs me is how the hammer is taking huge chunks out of the butcher block countertop. Oliver doesn’t give a damn how much damage he’s doing. Knowing how he feels about this house, that can’t be a good thing.

As he swings the hammer, his fury is terrifying. His eyes are glittering, his face is flushed. He’s sweating, dark patches showing through on the chest, back, and underarms of his t-shirt. He hits the ring about a hundred times.

Finally, he stops. He’s standing there panting, looking at me. Still holding the hammer.

He takes a step toward me, and I take a step back, my heart racing.

I really think he’s losing it.

When I knew Oliver before, he seemed like a nice enough guy. Sometimes a little shallow. Sometimes a little clingy. But mostly normal, with only little swings into oddness.

Now, it’s the opposite—he seems to be dangling on the precipice of madness, only hanging on by a thread. But I’m not sure what that thread is—is it this house? Is it his affection for me? Or is it just the appearance of calm—fragile, and easily shattered?

He takes one more step, then seems to remember that he’s holding the hammer. He sets it down on the counter, pulling his phone out of his pocket instead.

“Let’s have a little music,” he says.

He scrolls through his playlist, selecting a song and setting the phone down on the counter to play.

The tinny sound of “Make You Feel My Love” fills the little room.

When the rain is blowing in your face

And the whole world is on your case

I could offer you a warm embrace

To make you feel my love

Oliver advances on me. There’s not really any way to refuse. He takes my cast in his left hand, putting his other hand around my waist. Then he sways us back and forth, a little off the beat.

I can feel the heat radiating off his body. His hand is sweaty, wrapped around mine. There’s a slight metallic tang to his sweat. I don’t know if it was always like that, or if this is new.

In sharp contrast to our apparently romantic position, every muscle of my body is tense, every nerve is screaming that I’m in danger, that I need to get away from this man.

There is nothing romantic about this at all. I’m struggling to understand how I ever dated Oliver. I guess I never paid that much attention to him. I was looking for fun; he was just along for the ride. Now that I’m really looking into his eyes, I don’t like what I see there: need. Resentment. And a little madness.

“We never went dancing together,” Oliver says sulkily. “You always wanted to go with your friends.”

“Oliver, I’m sorry that—”

He interrupts me. “You used to call me ‘Ollie.’ I like that much better than Oliver.”

I swallow uncomfortably.