Crowned by Hate (Crowned 1)

“Isa…” Bryant leans up on his elbows, watching me closely.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” I mutter, going back to bed and slipping back under the covers. “Just had a bad dream.”

He pauses, I can see him watching me out of the corner of my eye. “You usually have dreams?”

I shrug. “Sometimes. Some are more vivid than others.” I hit the lamp switch, cutting off the light again and sink into the bed, bringing the covers up to my mouth.

Silence.

Then suddenly, he gets up from bed and tugs on his sweatpants.

“What are you doing?”

Flicking on his side of the lamp, I turn over to see him throwing on a hoodie. “Going for a run.”

I gaze at the time. “But it’s four in the morning?”

“Your point?” he asks, annoyance etching into his features. I want to say that I thought he only ran at night but thought better of it. Even at this ungodly hour, fresh out of bed, he looks beautiful. It’s not fair, he shouldn’t be this good-looking.

“My point is it’s four a.m.,” I repeat, matching his annoyed tone.

He takes out some headphones and puts them into his ears before throwing his hoodie over his head. I open my mouth, about to say something else when he turns and leaves.

Huffing out, I lay back on my back and gaze up at the ceiling. Why doesn’t he just kill me and get it over with? Because dragging it out is worse, I guess. That must be what he’s doing. This way, it lasts longer. Killing me would be too easy. But even as I think it, I know that there has to be more to this vendetta. Bryant Royal is calculated, smart, coherent. He’s one hundred steps ahead of the human race and about three steps behind God. There’s no outsmarting someone like him, there’s not even a chance that I could work out what he’s planning—but I’ll try.

Tossing and turning, I settle for the fact that I won’t be getting back to sleep anytime soon so I throw the covers off and get out of bed. Walking out of the master bedroom, I head down the stairs that lead to the main living areas when I hear the coffee pot starting up. Bryant must be home from his run. Wrapping my robe around my body, I enter the kitchen and stop dead in my tracks. It’s not Bryant that’s in there, it’s another woman, dressed half naked, wearing nothing but lace panties and a man’s white dress shirt.

Bryant’s suit shirt—I’m guessing, since he’s the only man that lives here.

“Ahh,” I start, clearing my throat. If Bryant thinks he can fuck around on me under my own nose he has another thing coming. Even though I shouldn’t care because our wedding is a fucking joke, still. It’s the principle. “Who the fuck are you?” I quip, it’s a step up from what Devon would have said—or done—thinking of Devon sets off a pang inside my chest. My yearning for him has intensified since last night, so I’ve decided I’m going to hunt him down today before calling my father to see if I can get any information out of him about this ridiculous fucking marriage.

Back to the slut in my kitchen.

The woman pauses, taking the mug from under the machine and bringing it to her lips, obviously unfazed by my intrusion.

She turns around slowly, smirking from beneath the rim. “I’m Jessica. And you are?” She tilts her head, looking me up and down. What the fuck is going on? And where the fuck is Bryant. And why is this bitch so damn fucking beautiful. Why the fuck am I even acknowledging that this bitch is beautiful? I need to get my cranium checked. We’ve been married for not even twenty-four hours, and he’s already putting his dick into other girls. Hot girls. Fuck.

Fuck that.

“Isa…” I pause, then smirk. “Isa Royal.”

Her mouth falls slightly before she places her mug on the kitchen table. “What the fuck has that idiot done.”

“Pardon?” I quirk my eyebrow, confused about her stance or audacity.

She rolls her eyes, pulling a chair out from under the table and taking a seat. “I’m Jessica Royal. Bryant’s sister.”

The shock that falls over my face tells her enough. I didn’t know Bryant had a sister, and nothing was said at the wedding either. Shit.

I tug out a chair and take a seat opposite her. She scans me, I scan her, both of us quite openly trying to assess each other. Then she hitches her thumb over her shoulder. “You don’t want a coffee?”

I shake my head, the confusion still probably marred over my face. “No. Um, I don’t mean to be rude, but I didn’t know he had a sister?”

“Mmm.” She places the mug onto the table, hiking a knee up. “He doesn’t like to broadcast me that much because I’m a rebel that makes him look bad.” She takes a sip of coffee. “And I also only just flew in from Paris this morning.”