Page 6 of Brazen Defiance (Brazen Boys #4)

Trips

B reakfast is torture. It was always going to be torture, but I didn’t imagine it like this, the weight of the ring box like Sisyphus’ boulder pressing against my thigh.

I left the tape across my knuckles, not worried about appearances anymore. What else can Father possibly take from me? He’s taken my freedom. He’s taken the freedom of everyone I care about, save Mattie. I will lose my friends over this.

I’ll lose Clara if I haven’t already.

So many plans, destroyed. So much hope shattered like a pile of plates against the wall during Sunday dinner. My father always painted me as a psycho. As a dangerous player. I might as well play the part.

Clara, meanwhile, looks sweet as cotton candy, even if she’s one of the only women in pants.

It suits her more than a dress would. She looks stronger, more composed than earlier, when tears leaked out of her eyes while her face stayed locked in a state of disbelief or grief—I couldn’t quite tell which.

Either way, she’s got that demure smile on, chatting with a group of women about their horses, like she’s been visiting the stable since she could walk, and the women are eating it up.

If they paid attention, they’d realize she’s only asking questions, saying nothing about her own experiences.

I’d bet she has close to zero of them. There aren’t a lot of horsey options for people with a net worth under a million.

Trevor sneaks up on me, slapping me on the back hoping to make me stumble. “You disappeared early last night,” he says, by way of hello.

“Father wanted to speak to me.”

He glances at me, something dagger-sharp in his gaze. “If you two are keeping secrets, I’m going to be very upset.”

“Father will do what Father does. And this secret won’t be one for much longer, so fuck off your high horse.”

He slaps me again, the hit stinging even through my sweater. “College hasn’t cleaned you up an ounce, has it? What is Father going to use you for if you can’t even make it through three minutes without cursing?”

I hold up my bandaged fists. “The same thing he’s always wanted from me, Trevor. No surprises there.”

He tsks, like a little old maid, and his fiancée takes that moment to duck under his arm and into our conversation. “Hello, Archie. Have you tried the almond croissants? My dad flew them in especially for today.”

“I’m not really a pastry person,” I say, not wanting to waste energy pretending to enjoy Olivia’s company. The damn woman likes cats , so now I’m being forced to propose to my roommate and explode my whole damn existence.

Yeah, maybe I’m not being fair to her. But nothing about this shit is fair.

“Oh, well, there’s wagyu, bacon, and a variety of eggs, free-range duck and goose included, being prepared by the chef as well,” she says, eager to make sure I’m happy at her party.

This girl was made to be a politician’s wife. I get why my dad forced this match. Poor thing got stuck with my brother, but that’s not my fucking problem either.

“I’m not really a breakfast person,” I say, my stomach in bloody knots over what I have to do.

Olivia looks to my brother for help, and his hand clenches around the back of my neck, his nails digging in. He doesn’t like that I’m being rude. Or more likely, he doesn’t like that I know something he doesn’t.

I debate throwing him off me, but my father catches my eye across the room, and even though I know it’s impossible, it looks like he has even more things he can take from me. So I let Trevor’s nails break my skin, the sting almost welcome after the last twelve hours. “Sorry,” I choke out.

Then I twist out of Trevor’s grip and march away down the hall, then outside. Back into the snow that almost killed Clara. The snow I almost killed Clara with.

How many ways can I fuck up? How many times can I see a way to escape and then fumble the landing? Why do I even try when it always lands me right back here, at my father’s mercy, a worse fuck-up than when I started?

A cloth napkin appears in my peripheral, followed by Clara. “For your neck,” she says.

She’s always watching. Just another morsel in support for her being a natural at all this shit.

“Thanks.”

She tucks her hands into her armpits as soon as I take the cloth to blot my neck. It comes back with smears of red.

“Why outside?” she asks.

“There are a lot fewer microphones and cameras out here.”

“But still some?”

“Still some.”

“Most people have more cameras outside their homes than in them.”

“Most people fear the people outside of their homes more than the people inside them.”

She looks up at me, her dark eyes dull. “How much longer do we have to stay?”

“I don’t know. It sounds like Father wants me to make a big show of it. Then I imagine there’ll be toasts or some shit.”

She looks back across the lawn. “Toasts for the happy couple.”

I swallow back something bitter. “Do you think you’ll be able to play the part?”

“Do you?”

Fuck. The hell if I know.

Have I wanted Clara? Wanted her more than I’ve wanted anything since those first few months I got sober?

Yeah. As much as I’ve tried to fight it, ignore it, downplay it, I’ve wanted her.

But not like this. Never like this.

All I wanted was to remove us all from danger.

From the mystery problems with our jobs, which ended up being my father.

From my father’s threat to pull me back into the family business.

God, even from the fuckwad of an ex who’s stolen so much from Clara.

From dangers outside the group, from the risk of meltdown within.

So, I stayed separate. I dug down leads; I beat up her ex.

Forcing myself out of my comfort zone, I managed the mopey mess that Walker can devolve into and the powder-keg that is Jansen.

Fuck, I taught her to fight in the dead of the night, just to give her something else to focus on besides the shit her ex put her through.

The shit that resulted from my damn family figuring out what I’ve been up to.

But it wasn’t enough. Not enough for her, for us. But more than enough for my dad to find a solution to all his problems, a way to chain me to the family, cursing her right alongside me.

“I don’t fucking know if I can,” I admit.

“What if we ran?” She doesn’t stop staring across the blanket of white, swallowing the lake below.

“How fast and how far?”

“As fast as we can. As far as we have to.”

A cough has us both turning back to the house, my goddamn father standing there. “I hope this conversation was entirely hypothetical.”

“Entirely, sir,” I respond, the courtesy falling off my tongue like it was trained to, already slipping back into old habits I wish I didn’t have.

“Good. It’s time.”

“Yes, sir.”

He holds the door, making us both pass him, and when it shuts behind him, there’s a finality to it. Like the slam of a prison door.

Brunch is dying down, the chef cleaning her station. My father passes us, his gaze heavy as he heads for my stepmother, Mattie looking between us, unable to hide her sadness. Her fear.

Clara steps close, slipping her hand into mine, and I wish I knew if it was because she still cared, or because it’s the way to play this. From here forward, we’re a couple.

I clear my throat. “If I could have your attention, please.”

The room turns toward us, and my damn heart claws its way into my throat.

I debate just announcing it, like it’s a done deal. But Father insisted on a show, and the way he looks at us, he’s ready to threaten us with some other ungodly disaster. Until I know what it is, I’ll play by his rules. As fucked-up and broken as they are.

Down on one knee, gasps echo from the crowd of strangers. But all I see is Clara, tears unshed in her eyes.

“Clara,” I start, my voice raspy and cracking. I clear my throat, not wanting to sound like an idiot. She deserves better. So much better.

“When we met, I thought you were hot, but more trouble than you were worth. You thought I was an asshole. You weren’t wrong.”

Scattered laughter greets that, like it’s a joke. But it’s not. It’s true.

“Nothing about the last few months has been easy. Nothing has been straightforward. You fight me on every damn thing. And you’re right more often than not. I fucking hate that.”

More laughter greets that, but Clara, her hand clenches in her billowy pants, while her mouth twists into something between sorrow and resignation.

“But I’ve learned more from you than I’ve been able to teach you. I’ve learned to trust you. Trust your judgment, even when the shit you do looks like chaos, and the aftermath looks like the emotional equivalent of a tornado. You’ve ruined half of my plans but fixed at least as many.”

When I reach for her hand, the one not crumpled in her pants, mine shakes. “You’ve made me kinder. You’ve made me laugh. You’ve made me care.”

I look up at her, those tears now running down her cheeks again, her breath shaky and shallow. “Will you take this asshole and spend forever teaching him to be a little bit nicer?”

Her gaze is dark, haunted, and she doesn’t respond right away. Or at least it feels that way. Like maybe she’s working up to one of her crazy plans, and we’ll bust out of here and away before things get worse. More tangled. More trapped.

But then, she nods, and I’m on my feet, pulling her against my chest, not wanting these strangers to see any more of her tears than they already have.

The room erupts in sound, but I don’t hear any of it.

I’m too focused on small hands squeezing me closer, on the way the box with the godawful ring is still in my hand, not on her finger, on that damn floral scent that wafts up at me.

On her. On this fucked-up moment that was pure theater but somehow felt real.

And when she collects herself, and we take a round of the room, like we’re expected to, my father’s subtle nod tells me that no dire consequences will come, that I did well enough. But that’s not what I’m thinking about. Not at all.

I’m stuck on one thing: it felt real.

And I don’t know what to do about that.