Brutal Prince (Brutal Birthright)

“What are you doing? Why aren’t you dressed?” she says, when she sees me standing there with a towel tied around my waist.

“Because I don’t have my tux,” I tell her.

“What’s that?”

I step aside so she can see. She plucks up the lace cravat, holding it distastefully between her forefinger and thumb.

“A gift from my soon-to-be bride,” I say, holding out the card.

My mother reads it in a glance. She frowns, then says, “Put it on.”

I bark out a laugh.

“You have to be joking.”

“Do it!” she says. “We don’t have time to get another tux. And it’s not worth blowing this whole thing up over a suit.”

“This is not a suit. It’s a fucking embarrassment.”

“I don’t care!” she says sharply. “It’s a small wedding. Hardly anyone will see.”

“Not happening.”

“Callum,” she snaps. “Enough. You’re going to have a hundred more battles to fight with Aida. You need to pick the ones that are important. Now get moving, we need to leave in six minutes.”

Unbelievable. I thought she’d lose her mind over this, if only for the way the brown will clash with her carefully-curated cream, olive, and gray color scheme.

I pull on the ridiculous suit, almost choking on the smell of mothballs. I don’t even want to know where Aida dug this up. Probably her great-grandfather was buried in it.

The important thing is how I’m going to punish her for this.

She’s made a serious mistake, poking the bear over and over again. It’s time for me to wake up and give her a good slap.

She’ll get what’s coming to her tonight.

As soon as I’m dressed, I hurry down the stairs to the waiting limo. The one carrying my mother and sisters already left—it’s just me and my father in this one.

He raises an eyebrow at my suit but doesn’t say anything. My mother probably already briefed him.

“How are you feeling?” he asks me curtly.

“Fantastic,” I say. “Can’t you tell?”

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of humor,” he informs me.

“I thought that was puns.”

“This will be good for you, Cal. You can’t see it now, but it will be.”

I set my teeth, imagining taking out every one of my frustrations on Aida’s tight little ass tonight.

I feel sacrilegious walking into the c

hurch—like god might strike us down for this unholy union. If Aida pisses me off enough, I’m going to dunk her in the holy water and see if it sets her aflame.

It’s easy to see which side of the aisle is mine and which is Aida’s—all those dark, curly-haired Italians vs. the horse mane hues of the Irish: blond, red, gray, and brunette.

The groomsmen are Aida’s brothers, the bridesmaids are my sisters. We have equal numbers because only Dante and Nero are standing up—Sebastian is sitting in the front row in a wheelchair, his knee still bulky from the bandage under his slacks.