Page 13 of Bloody Wedding (The Order of the Owed #1)

Breakfast. It was my bright idea to suggest that that be two of the meals I’m forced to share with him.

If I thought that I could get this marriage annulled by not following the Order’s archaic rules when it comes to marriage, I’d pretend to be asleep.

But since I know that it would only piss off the King if I didn’t play my part—and, even if I’m pissed at Dad for leaving me alone at the altar yesterday, I know that he’d be on the chopping block again if I test Jack Collins’s patience—I take a deep breath, then call out, “I’ll meet you downstairs. ”

“In the kitchen, princess. And don’t be late.”

I pick up the pillow behind me, launching it at the door. It hits with a muffled thud that doesn’t do a thing, but at least I feel better.

I allow myself five minutes before I leave the sanctity of my private bedroom.

I changed into a cozy t-shirt and a pair of leggings.

Instead of those torturous heels from the wedding, I have on a pair of flat white sneakers in case I need to bolt.

Without my car, that’s basically all I can do.

It’s probably overkill, but I prefer to be prepared.

Which is why I also have my phone tucked in my bra, and my wavy hair pulled back into a low ponytail…

I walk into the kitchen, head up, hoping like hell he can’t tell how nervous I am.

Inside of the kitchen, there’s a small table. It seats four; compared to the massive table in the dining room, I get the feeling that this is where Adrian usually eats, leaving the twelve-seater for either dinner parties or, honestly, just showing off his obvious wealth.

The table is set. A pair of coffee mugs are placed opposite each other.

Same with a water glass, plus a pitcher positioned between the two seats.

A pile of pancakes is on top of one serving plate.

Crispy bacon on another. A bottle of expensive maple syrup is next to the pancakes.

Fluffy scrambled eggs fill a bowl behind the bacon.

Empty plates tell me where I’m supposed to sit: right next to Adrian, of course.

He’s sitting in his seat, a scowl on his face, fingers tapping anxiously against the tabletop. He’s coiled tightly, eyes narrowed a little as though he’s in some kind of discomfort. A headache maybe?

Either way, the charming bastard from last night has been replaced by an Adrian I’d hoped to never see again: a pissy, angry bully who was ready to say anything to remind me that I’m just not good enough for him.

I almost turn around. The Loni I once was would have. But now?

I step into the kitchen, the sole of my sneaker slapping just enough to catch his attention.

To my surprise, his scowl fades into an expression of… relief, maybe? Pleasure? I don’t know, but he doesn’t look as pissed once he realizes that I came down to join him for breakfast after all.

He beckons me toward him. “Come here.”

Um. Okay.

I head toward the table. At the same time, Adrian rises to his feet.

It’s a shame that his bare chest is covered.

Just like how I changed, he’s wearing a new suit, the buttons regretfully done up to the top.

His tie is a forest green that sets off his eyes—though that could be the look of lust that flashes in their depths as he watches my approach.

He holds out his hand. “Give your husband a kiss.”

I blanch, stepping back. “I haven’t brushed my teeth yet.”

He moves forward, laying his hand on my bicep. “And I haven’t had a cigarette in twelve hours. So I don’t give a fuck what you taste like right now. I haven’t smoked. You owe me a kiss. I want it.”

This is some kind of game he’s playing. It has to be. There is absolutely no way that he’s fiending this bad for his nicotine, but instead of telling me to fuck off and lighting up, he wants me to kiss him.

Only that’s exactly what he wants.

Before I can shake him off, he shifts his hand again, finding the pulse-point in my neck. I melt against him, bracing my arms on his hard chest, parting my lips to let him find out just how wicked my morning breath can be.

If I thought it would bother him, I’m way wrong. In fact, the kiss seems to last even longer than the one from last night, to the point that I find myself returning to his mouth once he pulls back.

He kisses me again, and when sense slams into me so that I pull away this time, he tightens his grip on my neck.

Adrian rests his forehead against mine. “Ah. Much better.”

I shouldn’t care.

I shouldn’t ask.

I shouldn’t?—

“Hey. You okay?”

“Internet says it can take a couple of weeks for the nicotine withdrawals to end. First few days are the worst, though, so if I can make it past tomorrow, the rest will be a breeze.” He strokes his thumb over my cheek. “I’ll be fine.”

He might be.

I’m not.

A pulse of pain shoots through me. I wince, trying to cover up the discomfort before he notices it.

Too late.

His gaze narrows on me. “Loni? What’s the matter?”

I shake my head. It doesn’t matter. He’s always been a perceptive bastard.

Never looking away from me, he grabs the nearest napkin and dips it into the pitcher of water to his right.

With an expression of pure concentration, he wipes away the thin layer of foundation I put on this morning.

Last night, when I took off the heavy wedding makeup, I was disappointed to see that the remnants of the bruise Desmond gave me were still standing out on my face.

Instead of purply-red, it was greenish-yellow.

A healing bruise, sure, but obviously a mark that I still needed to hide.

So, instead of brushing my teeth this morning, I went to work with the makeup that made its way from Dad’s house to Adrian’s fucking mansion . Too much and that would catch his attention. Too little and the bruise would stand out.

I didn’t want him to see it. I wish I could understand why. If he saw it and didn’t care, that would break me. But if he saw it and did care? That would be worse somehow, I think.

I can tell when he wipes away enough to see the bruise because he sucks in a breath, his cheeks hollowing as he lowers the napkin so that he isn’t rubbing the tender skin more than he has to.

Tossing the napkin to the table, he lays his hand flat, gripping it instead of reaching for me again. “Who did it, Loni?”

I shake my head. “It’s nothing?—”

A soft rumble deep in his chest, a warning that I’m wrong. That it isn’t ‘nothing’. “Don’t make me ask again. Who hurt you?”

There’s no point in lying. “Desmond, okay? So don’t think me a heartless bitch because I didn’t shed a tear after you killed him. If you ask me, he deserved it.”

Adrian’s eyes flash angrily. “He deserves far more than a mercy killing. Three shots and he might’ve felt one. Fuck. If I knew… he would’ve felt the whole damn magazine before I let him die.”

My stomach twists. It’s not hunger. It’s not fear at seeing the return of his murderous side.

It’s arousal.

Shit.