Brutal Prince (Brutal Birthright)

I like her embarrassment. I like that I’ve found this chink in her armor.

“Good to know you’re not completely awful at sex,” I say rudely.

Now she glares back at me, eyes bright and ferocious once more.

“Wish I could return the compliment,” she says.

I grin.

Aida, you little liar. Keep it up, and I’m going to wash your mouth out with soap. Or maybe something else . . .

13

Aida

Living with the Griffins is strange, to say the least.

The only person who seems happy to have me there is Nessa. We weren’t exactly friends at school, but we were cordial enough, from a distance. We know some of the same people, so now we can talk about all the weird shit they got up to since graduation.

I think Nessa likes having me there because I’m the only person who doesn’t behave like an Ambition Bot. I’m willing to actually talk at breakfast, not just work and eat in silence. Plus, we’re both taking classes at Loyola, so we can ride to school together in Nessa’s Jeep.

Nessa is a genuinely kind person, something you don’t see a lot of in the world. Plenty of people act nice, but it’s just manners. Nessa gives away all her pocket money to homeless people, every single day. She never talks shit about anybody, even people who totally deserve it, like her siblings and her most vapid friends. She listens when people talk—I mean, really listens. She’s more interested in you than in herself.

I don’t know how a bunch of sociopaths managed to raise a girl like that. Actually, it’s kind of tragic, because the Griffins look at her kindness as a failing, like some mild disability. They joke about how soft she is, how innocent.

I know Callum cares about her, but she’s like a pet to him, not an equal.

Nessa welcomes me with open arms, glad to have another sister. Especially one that’s slightly less of an asshole than Riona.

I don’t know shit about having a sister. All I know is what I see in movies: braiding each other’s hair, stealing each other’s clothes, sometimes hating each other, sometimes crying on each other’s shoulders. I don’t know if I could do any of those things without feeling idiotic.

But I’m glad to have Nessa as a friend. There’s a peacefulness to her personality that helps smooth down some of my rough edges.

Actually, I spend more time with her than I do with my new husband. Callum is working insanely long hours in the lead up to the election, and I’m usually already asleep in our shared bed by the time he comes in.

Maybe it’s on purpose. We haven’t hooked up again since our official “consummation” of the wedding.

That took me by surprise. I barged into the shower because I was cold and tired of waiting, and I wanted to show him that he couldn’t intimidate me, not by half-drowning me, and certainly not with a little nudity.

I didn’t expect him to kiss me. And I definitely didn’t expect him to touch me that way . . .

Here’s the problem. I like sex. A lot. And I’m used to getting it pretty frequently.

So, unless I’m going to start cheating on my brand-new husband, which is a really bad idea for a variety of reasons, then there’s only one place to get my fix.

And it’s not exactly like I have to grin and bear it. Callum is hot. He’s cold, and arrogant, and a total control freak—he’s already chewed me out five times this week for leaving clothes on the floor and spattering the mirror while I’m brushing my teeth, and not making the bed when I get up an hour after him. But none of those things change the fact that the man is genetically blessed. His face, his body, and that cock . . . none of it is hard to look at.

And he’s got some skills, too. He doesn’t fuck like a robot. He can be gentle, he can be rough, and above all, he’s extremely perceptive. He reads me like a book.

So I wouldn’t mind exploring this whole married sex thing a little further. But he’s been too busy—or avoiding me.

Of course, when he does finally need my help, he asks in the most obnoxious way possible, which is not asking at all.

He corners me in the kitchen, where I’m trying to toast a bagel. The Griffins’ toaster keeps popping it back up again, because it probably hasn’t been used in ten years since I’m the only one in this house familiar with the concept of carbs.

“I have a fundraiser tonight,” Callum says. “Be ready at seven.”

“Sorry,” I say, jamming down the lever on the toaster and holding it in place, “I’ve already got plans.”