Page 1 of Her Wicked Husband (The Huxleys #2)

Fiona

The guests hear “Here Comes the Bride,” but “Dies irae” from Verdi’s Requiem Mass plays in my head. Of course, the only thing they see is a gorgeous groom at the other end of the aisle—someone who should make my heart flutter and my pulse race.

My pulse is racing, all right. But all that’s shaking are my legs as I make my way, alone, up the aisle to the man I’m about to marry. It’s everything I can do to not turn around and run someplace nobody will ever find me.

Jude Morven is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Lucifer in Gabriel’s garb. From his carefully styled golden hair to his crinkling baby-blue eyes and full, cherubic lips, he shines with a beauty that’s an unholy cross between arresting masculinity and boyish innocence.

But his soul? It stinks, absolutely the worst of the worst. If his appearance reflected his heart, he’d be stooped over, skin pitted, wiry hair growing out of his ears, smelling like mashed garlic gone bad.

Next to him is his best friend and best man—my adoptive brother, Aaron Oberman.

People often remark that Aaron and Jude look like siblings, with Aaron being the uglier, shorter and less accomplished one.

But his taste in clothes and life in general is as expensive as Jude’s.

He’s poorer than Jude, but has a relentless drive to spend as lavishly as his best friend.

Which is why his tuxedo nearly outshines the groom’s.

But nothing can outshine Aaron’s smile. He’s beaming like he ’s the happy bride.

I might beam too if I were a heartless asshole who didn’t care that he was selling his adoptive sister off to a sociopath for two million dollars.

Not sure if Aaron knows the depths of Jude’s depravity.

But it wouldn’t matter, because money matters more.

Aaron’s mom Sherry is seated in the front row, in an eye-catching burnt-orange damask dress.

Most people don’t realize that we aren’t actually related by blood.

Her chignon is the same shade of auburn as my carefully curled hair.

Our eyes are similar as well—moss green ringed with gold, although hers are often vacant and focused somewhere “beyond” as she silently recites some Buddhist scripture.

Even now, in the midst of the wedding festivities, she moves her thumb over the beads on her japamala.

It’s made with a hundred and eight small blue lace agate beads and one larger one, all strung together with off-white silk threads.

I’ve never seen her without it, even in her sleep.

Her eyes meet mine briefly, then drop to her lap.

If she knew what I was doing—and why—would she try to stop me?

Or would it not matter because I’m not her real daughter and Aaron is her actual flesh and blood?

I wish I knew, but Sherry would never tell me, and I’m too cowardly to ask.

I want to believe she loves me—that she treats me as well as she treats her real daughter, Finley. Otherwise…

I don’t know what I’d do otherwise. Fear has muddied my mind since I found out I need to pay off the two million dollars my brother owes some loan sharks…or face the unimaginable consequences.

Despite my slow progress, I’m already close to the altar. Jude’s smile widens, his unblinking eyes on me. The large stained-glass panel behind him is backlit by the sun, casting various colors into the chapel.

My mouth dries. My pulse beats wildly, like a sacrificial lamb’s.

I glance out the open windows to the bright sky. So beautiful. Not a wisp of cloud anywhere on the endless azure expanse.

Dear Buddha, please strike this ceremony with lightning. I’ll give up meat for the rest of my life.

There is no explosion of heavenly electricity. A few birds chirp as “ Here Comes the Bride” swells to a climax. But then, Buddha isn’t really known for lightning strikes.

My grip on the bouquet tightens as cold sweat slickens my palms. Tremors wrack me. Jude’s eyes gleam with the satisfaction of a hyena about to rip into its prey. He wants to make me suffer for daring to leave him eight years ago.

Dear God. Please! Just one lightning strike. You can bypass the chapel and hit me directly. I don’t care.

The doors behind me open with a thunderous crash. Yes! Thank you, God .

Joyous relief nearly turns my knees into jelly. I spin around, hoping for a spectacularly messed-up entrance, one with lots of rubble and clouds of dust. Jude’s grandmother is superstitious. She’ll never let the ceremony continue. Ideally, she won’t let me marry into the family at all.

What about the money?

The question hammers in my head, but my sense of self-preservation says I should flee. God is against this marriage. Surely, he’ll strike down the loan sharks as well.

The buoyant sensation in my heart instantly fizzles as I take in the sight of the man at the entrance. A dark tuxedo molds to him perfectly from broad shoulders to narrow waist. The unknotted tie hangs around his neck, and the top two buttons are undone, showing a hint of a strong, lean chest.

Whispers rise in the chapel as I take him in.

Slanted, dark brows over a pair of sharp gray eyes that mocked me only a month ago.

A perfectly straight nose and the firm, confident line of his surprisingly full lips.

Expensively cropped black hair looks like a crown, and the set of his strong jaw says he doesn’t give a fuck.

I blink to clear the vision. But no. It’s still him. Bryce Huxley, in the flesh, looking like he’s just stepped out of a fashion shoot for dissolute bad boys.

What’s he doing here?

He was the first—actually the only —person I could think of when my family was about to face bankruptcy and needed two million dollars.

He hates my guts now, but he owes me one.

When I rescued his golden retriever from a hit-and-run accident ten years ago and took care of her, Bryce promised he would do me a favor—anything within his means. No time limit.

I’ve never called that marker in. I did it for the dog, not for Bryce to owe me something.

Still, I didn’t expect the son of a bitch to not only ignore my plea, but act like he had amnesia about the promise.

Hopefully he doesn’t think crashing the wedding is what I wanted, because I wasn’t thinking about marrying Jude at that time.

The deal to sell me off to Jude came after Bryce turned me down and humiliated me at his office.

“Bryce Huxley! What a surprise,” Jude calls out, then takes a step forward.

Rivals since high school, they never got along.

“You weren’t invited, but you’re welcome to sit in the back and toast to us later.

After all”—he spreads his arms magnanimously—“we have a history.” His tone is triumphant, almost gloating— I won. Again .

He comes down the steps of the altar, grabs my hand and yanks me up toward him, causing me to drop the bouquet. He doesn’t seem to care; his arm wraps around my waist, pressing our bodies together. Cold shivers spider over my spine and neck, making my scalp prickle. Nausea roils in my belly.

“I’m not here to toast to you.” Bryce glances at Jude’s hold on me, then looks me in the eye. “What you said in my office—does it still hold?”

Confusion clouds my mind as I desperately try to remember exactly what I said. Didn’t he trample all over me and basically tell me to go fuck myself? “Well—”

“Yes or no?”

My mouth dries. I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. “Yes. But—”

“Fine.” He raises his hand, palm up. “Let’s finish our talk.”

“Our talk…?”

“The favor.”

Shock snuffs all the thoughts in my head. I stare at his hand blankly for a moment, trying to decide if I’m hallucinating. He was so resolute and final when he had me dragged out of Huxley & Webber.

Bryce’s eyes remain as calm as a lake, but he cocks an eyebrow. The small shift in his expression jolts me out of stupefaction. He won’t wait forever .

I don’t know what he’ll demand. Two million is a lot of money, and we never got around to discussing how I’d pay it back before he kicked me out. But…

My heart pounds so hard I feel half dazed, my body trembling. Bryce couldn’t possibly be any worse than Jude, could he? The memory of the two years of abuse and humiliation Jude heaped upon me is a weight that may never leave. And he hasn’t gotten any better since. Being with him will mean—

Dread clamps around my neck. I can’t be with him again, especially when I might have another option.

Bryce might not be much better, but at least he isn’t an out-and-out sociopath.

He might hate me, but at least he’ll try to be respectful in public.

Jude loved to humiliate me in public. It stroked his ego, made him feel powerful and manly.

I lunge forward before Jude can react, flying down the aisle in my heels toward Bryce. Brilliant exultation flares in the depths of his eyes.

“You whore!” Jude spits. I can hear him running behind me, trying to catch up.

And then it all becomes too much. My knees buckle in mid-stride and I start to fall. Surprise flashes in Bryce’s eyes as he lunges forward, catching me and throwing me over a shoulder in one smooth motion.

Aaron takes a few steps forward. Some of the guests jump to their feet as well, seemingly ready to take action.

But Aaron hesitates, obviously unwilling to put himself between Bryce and Jude.

The guests look at each other, unsure what to do.

Only Sherry breaks the tableau, counting her beads and chanting her mantra, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the white cross on the wall.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Aaron shouts finally, his chest heaving.

“Sealing a deal and saving the family,” I say, but it’s anybody’s guess as to whether or not he hears me.

Bryce turns and starts walking out, but something tugs at my train.

“Stop!” Jude says. “She’s my woman!”

I lift my head and look at his distorted face, his eyes burning with unholy fury. I flip him the bird—something I’ve wanted to do for a long, long time. I’m not anybody’s woman, and especially not his.

Bryce spins around. I grab his jacket and twist to see what’s about to happen between the two men.

“Put her down!” Jude snarls. “She’s mine—”

The rest ends in a high-pitched whimper as Bryce’s foot connects with his knee with a shudder-inducing crunch. I gasp with shock—and schadenfreude.

Jude’s face goes bright red, his eyes bulging. His mouth gapes open in a silent scream then closes as he clenches his jaw. Veins stand out on his temples as he clutches his knee with one hand, the other still grasping my train.

Bryce gathers some of the material in his own hand and yanks the train out of Jude’s grasp.

He turns and starts to walk out with me still on his shoulder.

“Might want to do something about your grip strength,” he says in a voice loud enough to carry through the entire chapel, “if you plan to use that hand for more than just jerking off.”