Ruthless Arrangement (Underworld Kings)

"Why do they lock me in here?" she asks, looking nervous.

"In case I get free and try to hold you hostage. They don't have to do anything but let you die as opposed to me getting out and using your body as a shield as I force my way out of here."

She looks at me slack-jawed, her face going pale as she tries to process everything I just said. I don't know why, but I enjoy the pleasure it brings me.

“Sorry I asked,” she mumbles.

"You need to pay attention because I'm only going to explain this once," I warn her—ignoring her cute reply. Belle’s eyes grow large with surprise at my order, and she nods. I'm surprised, but glad that she’s not arguing with me. I don’t need any more fucking headaches.

"I'm not going to marry you," she says before I can say anything else. The relief I have is short-lived because it seems like she’s intent on arguing after all.

"I need to show I have a stable life outside of here for the parole board when the time comes. We need to get married now before I have a hearing. Our marriage needs to be established and appear solid." She frowns, a wrinkle forming between her eyebrows. I can see all the questions on her face, but I don't have time to answer them. "We will be married. There's no arguing that," I add, watching as she gnaws at her lip nervously.

"Okay," she says, her voice coming out shaky and unsure. What? Okay? That's the last thing I expected her to say.

"You're smarter than your father," I murmur callously, covering my surprise. "I expected you to argue."

"There's really no point in that. Besides, it's not like we will be living together or anything. You're in here, and I'll be out there. It's fine. I'll marry you, and then we can get an annulment when you get out. I'm somewhat relieved I can help. I hate that I couldn't do anything to stop my father." I frown as she looks at me.

She seems so different from her father, but how do I know it’s not just a show to save herself? Every woman I’ve met is just as conniving as a man. The difference is they’re sneakier about it.

"You could have stopped all of this instead of running away," I point out bitterly. She gasps, offended by my words.

"I ran away because you were doing you know what, to you know who!" she argues in a harsh whisper.

"You can talk freely," I laugh.

"I thought they taped these things so they can use it against you in here," she responds pointedly. Hell, she’s smarter than I thought.

"I have it handled," I assure her with a shrug.

"That kind of thinking is probably what got you in shackles," she counters. Then, she purses her lips knowing she has a point.

Damn, she is smart.

“Fine, but regardless, you owe me, and because of that, we're getting married. You will be my perfect wife." My voice comes out predatory, but that’s how I’m feeling. I’m actually wondering why I'm enjoying this so much, but I am.

"Honestly, you should know I've never been perfect at anything."

"This you will be."

"I doubt that. Still, since we won't be living together, it won't really matter. I can come to visit you every weekend and play the part of the pining wife. That'll be fine. I just have one question."

"What’s that?"

"How are we supposed to get married if you're in here?" she asks, looking baffled by the idea. I can only grin as I move away from the table, walking to the door before knocking a few times.

I step back as E-Z walks in with the priest. Her eyes go round in surprise.

"Who is that?" She points as she gets up from the table to move farther into the room.

"This is Father Patrick. He's here to marry us. You're Catholic, right?" I question.

“Well, sort of. I am, but I’m a sucky one. The last time I went to confession, I was sixteen. I went because I wanted Mirana Kelly struck down. She stole my boyfriend right before the school dance. He was supposed to take me. I bought a new dress and had my hair done and everything. When I found out, I ended up skipping the dance. Everyone there would be talking about how I got dumped so he could date Mirana.”

“What did you do?”

“I stayed home and ate ice cream while crying all night,” she grumbles. Her full lips pout like it still bothers her. I can't tell if she's rambling because she's nervous or maybe because Father Patrick is standing here. I tilt my head, studying her for a second.

"What was his name?" I ask. I can't think of why I would ask or want to know.

“Mikey O'Hara.” She spits out his name like a curse. Of course, she would remember.