Page 52 of Brazen Defiance (Brazen Boys #4)

Trips

S itting in the same chairs in front of my father’s desk as this winter, Clara and I both play it cooler than either of us naturally run. With the most casual polo I could find in that dresser tight across my shoulders, I wait for whatever nail my father plans to hammer us with next.

He has a coffee and an egg sandwich in front of him, but we have nothing, and I know he’s not offering.

He lays his tablet in front of him, ignoring us, a power move that doesn’t bother me.

And with a quick glance at Clara, I see it doesn’t bother her either.

Instead, she’s taking the time to study him, to tease out whatever details she needs to make this work.

I gave her everything I had, but I’m not so stupid to think that being raised by the man hasn’t colored the way I see him.

He’s dangerous. A control freak. Smart and charming. The kind of man who can make the worst atrocities sound reasonable.

But he’s also almost sixty, his hair has only a hint of red left in it, his blue eyes fading, his skin sallow and creased.

He’s still a monster. He still has teeth sharp enough to take a bite out of me.

But when he had to choose between punishing me or punishing Clara, he chose Clara.

Partially because he hoped it would hurt me.

Which it did. But partially because he must know that even in a fixed fight, he’d lose.

I’m not only younger. I’m bigger, stronger, and prone to lashing out—a danger to his carefully crafted plans. In that, I take after my mom.

My mom was a striking woman. Rich and beautiful, but with a wild, competitive streak that led to her captaining her college basketball team.

She was a fury on the court, a woman who drove forward, dodging every barrier, leading her team to victory after victory.

She had a spark that everyone spoke of in whispered tones, one that as I grew older, I saw less and less of.

Until there was nothing left of her at all.

I may look like my father, but I needed to believe her when she said I had her heart. Otherwise, the line between him and me is as fine as the linen threads in my slacks.

My father sets down his coffee, showing it’s time to pay attention to him. “I hope you both have had some time to think and settle in.”

We stay silent, knowing he really doesn’t want an answer. Falk shifts his weight behind me, readying himself for any sudden movement from my direction.

“As you know, your brother is getting married tomorrow, and the rehearsal dinner is tonight. I appreciate your reappearance in time for the festivities. This is the sort of event that requires a united front. Because of that, and only that, I am offering you two a small do-over.”

He unlocks his safe-drawer, and pulls out a square velvet box, setting it on the table before us. “I assume the other ring I acquired last winter has long since been pawned.” I tucked it into the safe under my desk yesterday morning. We were worried he’d trace us if we pawned it.

He pushes the box to Clara, and she picks it up, clicking it open. Inside, a simple ring lays cradled in white velvet. A rectangular center diamond bracketed by four sapphires, two on each side, glints out. She looks at my father, her face still, uncertain how he expects her to act.

The way his lips twist, it becomes clear he sees this ring as an insult. “It’s not much, but I can’t risk you standing with the family without something on that finger.”

His gaze slides from Clara, whose brows furrow as she looks at the small box in her hands, to me, and I meet it without hesitation.

“Archie, you have three jobs this weekend, and I expect them all to be done without incident.”

I nod, waiting for the list of horrors he’s made for me.

“First, you will fuck this girl beside you. And you will do that as often as possible. Consider this job ongoing until she’s knocked up. I don’t care what protests she makes, how big her crocodile tears might get, but this is your number one priority. One that should have been settled months ago.”

I don’t look at Clara. We knew this was coming, but I don’t want to see reality hit her.

Planning is one thing. The actuality is brutally unfair to her.

We have ways around it, but we thought we had weeks.

Which means we’ll have to play a hellishly dangerous game until we get back to campus, until the guys can get her what she needs to keep this devil’s spawn from her cunt.

When I don’t respond with anything besides the urge to grind my teeth, my father’s smile grows.

“I’m curious how much of my son you are, Archie.

You want this woman, and as far as I’ve been able to tell, she’s led you on a merry chase.

What will that beast I know you have in you do when he finally gets his prize? Will he tear her to pieces?”

The ring box clicks shut beside me.

My father glances at Clara, hoping to see her fear, but her face is carefully blank.

He turns back to me. “Your second priority is to attend the rehearsal and the wedding, and to be perfectly unremarkable. Both of you. But once the guests leave tomorrow night, I have a third job for you, Archie. Do it well, and I might trust you enough to sleep in a bed occasionally. Fail, and I’m only letting you out to fuck this girl, work, and finish school. Your choice.”

“Yes, sir.” The words roll off my tongue, muscle memory that I wish I didn’t have.

He turns to Clara. “You, girl, need to understand that you are not a person in this house. You are a toy, a prize, and a threat—whatever lever I can pull to control my son. And your usefulness lies solely in your ability to carry my grandson to term and my son’s attachment to you.

If those two things fail you, then I will have no further use for you.

” He leans back in his chair, waiting until her eyes flick up to his.

“Don’t mistake those words as an offer of freedom, Ms. McElroy.

They are a threat and should be treated as such. ”

Her fingers tap twice on the arm of the chair, then she risks speaking. “If it’s a girl?” she asks, a question I never thought of.

But she would worry about the ‘what if.’ She would have to. This is her body she’s risking, and I hate it so much my vision fades for a moment before I force myself to breathe, to trace the threads in the chair under my fingers.

“If it’s a girl, we remove it and start again,” my father says.

Loss sinks into my bones at his casual contempt. It’s not like there aren’t ways to guarantee a grandson. Hell, we wouldn’t even have to have sex for him to get what he wants. So this? It’s nothing but needless cruelty disguised as a desire for things to be done the ‘traditional’ way.

Another way to assert control.

To break us down.

To take the only small blessing this arrangement could possibly create and turn it into a tragic ending.

The ache of grief confuses me more than anything. He voices a few more vague warnings before sending us from the room, Falk trailing us out, Mary passing us with a mixture of anger and sadness in her gaze.

But I can’t process that. I’m stuck on a mess of emotions, on the idea of a daughter, and of my sperm donor killing her for no other reason than what she doesn’t have between her legs.

I don’t want a baby. I probably never will. Too many fucked-up things have happened to me to trust myself around any child. But the idea of my father taking my daughter away, of removing her from the world before she even announces that she’s here, it twists my barely hinged fury into a maelstrom.

Clara won’t get pregnant. I won’t let her.

But if the worst happens, and she does, there’s no way in hell I’m staying around for my father to abort my daughter.

We agreed to no more running. We agreed we were staying to fight.

But I just found the one thing that would force me to haul Clara off this battlefield.

And it scares me more than anything I’ve faced so far in my cursed existence.

The door locks behind us, the blues of the room faded as the trees outside shade it from the bright morning sun.

Clara crosses to the window we stood by this morning, her arms wrapping tight around her middle, giving herself the hug that I can’t manage, my anger too close to the surface for anything so nurturing.

But like I’m on a leash, I trail behind, blocking her from whatever surveillance my father has put in the room. I force my jaw to unlock. “Are you okay?”

She shakes her head, her hair brushing against my chest. Then she turns, looking up at me, her dark eyes glassy, but a weary smile on her face.

When her hands bracket my jaw, I smother the urge to rub into her palms. “We’ve got this. It’ll work out,” she says.

She sounds more like she’s trying to convince herself than me, but I can’t blame her. Instead, I close my eyes, not wanting to watch her try to be brave on my behalf.

“I don’t want to do this,” I mutter, and her hands disappear from my skin, my eyes flicking open with the lack.

Her palms smooth down the front of the fussy navy and white dress I found for her in the closet, the fabric thick, the v neck cut so high as to not even be worth the effort. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, staring at her fingers as she tries to keep them still.

That barely curbed anger flares, and I step closer, crowding her against the window. “No. You don’t get to be sorry. None of this is your fault.”

I push too far, and she stumbles, gripping the front of my damn polo to keep herself upright, my hands locking onto her elbows, keeping her where she is.

Her lips twist, and I can feel another apology trying to escape.

It’s been one day in this house, and she’s already halfway back to the scared, broken girl she was a year ago.

But she visibly swallows the apology down, tilting her chin up, searching my face.

"What do you want from me, Trips?”

I want everything. Every damn nook and cranny, every thought and dream, every inch of skin and every breath warm against my skin.

But I know what I want more than anything from this woman in front of me.

I take a risk, take what I’ve wanted so long it feels like a permanent part of me, an extra broken limb I’ve dragged behind me for nearly a year, and I slide my hands up her arms, palming the sides of her neck, her pulse fluttering under my touch, and press my lips to hers.

For once, I’m gentle, not trying to convince her of anything, to punish her for tempting me against my better judgment, for being exactly what I want and exactly what I can’t have.

Instead, I kiss her like I should have that first time so long ago.

Like she’s precious. Someone worth protecting, no matter the cost. Someone that sings to my heart, my mind, and my body in equal measure.

Her little fists tighten on my shirt, tugging me closer, and the other side of me seeps out, my mouth fighting for dominance, plundering, taking, not worried about the consequences or the dangers. And when I finally get myself under control enough to pull back, I don’t, not really.

My lips brush her ear as I deliver my answer, a truth straight from me to her. “I want your fury and your fear.”

She jerks back, trying to parse meaning from a simple statement. She’ll figure it out if I give her the time, but I don’t want to make her jump through hoops. Not right now. So I kiss her again, working up the courage to explain the rest.

Our tongues wrestle, my skin burning from such a simple act, but I need to say this first. Panting, I press my lips to the skin under her ear, the pulse there stronger, fast and stuttered. “I need your fury and fear, so mine finally aren’t alone.”