Page 13 of Her Wicked Husband (The Huxleys #2)

Bryce

It barely takes an hour to reach the place where Fiona and Jude are getting married. Speeding helps. Thankfully, their wedding made the local gossip columns, which in turn made it easy to find them.

The venue Fiona and Jude picked out is done in an ostentatious and overwhelming amount of white, and actually sports onion domes. Where are we? Moscow?

But then, Jude does have an ego. Maybe he equates himself with a czar.

Giant banners with photos of Fiona and Jude hang everywhere. The fucker didn’t bother to use her real name, putting Finn Oberman on the banners. Ridiculous how she’s so into a man who won’t even call her by her real name.

When we first met, she said everyone called her Finn, but it doesn’t suit her. She’s more like a little rose that you didn’t know was there, but once you notice, you can’t look away. So I’ve always called her Fiona.

She’s smiling in every picture, her eyes wide and bright. Jude, on the other hand, grins like a man who’s rediscovered a toy he lost and had forgotten about. No affection glows in his gaze, just a need to possess.

How can she not see that? Or perhaps she does see it and doesn’t care. After all, it’s Jude. She’s always made an exception for him .

For a moment, I hesitate. What am I doing here? Crashing the wedding like a prince on a white horse? Am I trying to save her?

I’m no prince. I’m nobody’s prize, really, if you get to know me. But suddenly her photo from earlier flashes in my head. The heavy sense of oppression, helplessness and grief in her eyes. I think back to that rainy night at Harvard.

Frustration, irritation and the need to break something tighten around my neck. I rip at my shirt buttons, undoing the top two, and drag in more air.

Finally, clarity settles in my head. I’m no prince…

and she’s no princess. This isn’t a fairytale where I rescue her and we live happily ever after.

It’s a story where I ruin her wedding to an asshole, and then get to torment and use her until I get this constant restlessness and craving for her body out of my system.

Once I get to fuck her a few times, I’ll be satisfied—able to permanently evict her from my life and never think of her again.

The faint melody of “Here Comes the Bride” floats in the air.

I follow the sound. On the double doors are portraits of Fiona and Jude. Good God they’re desperate to let everyone know they’re getting married!

I kick the doors. They crash open with a deafening bang. Fiona stands in the aisle, near the altar. Jude and Aaron are with her—the latter of course being best man, since he’s almost as big an asshole as Jude.

The music fades. Whispers rise from the guests.

Fiona stares at me, her mouth parted. She blinks as though unable to believe I just crashed the wedding.

Shock, confusion, disappointment, hope and uncertainty all pass over her gorgeous face.

My heart inexplicably tight, I wait to see which will remain.

Finally, she frowns.

Don’t like what you see? Too bad, sweetheart. You shouldn’t have sent me those photos—actually, you shouldn’t have barged into my office and shown yourself in the first place .

Jude reacts first. “Bryce Huxley! What a surprise.” He smirks, malice glinting in his eyes, then starts to step forward, hiding Fiona behind him like a dog guarding his bone. “You aren’t invited— ”

Aren’t invited? Oh, is that how you want this to go? Trying to make me look like a socially maladroit fool? Derision tugs at my mouth.

“—but you’re welcome to sit in the back and toast to us later.”

Hope he isn’t expecting me to thank him for his “hospitality,” after that bullshit about the invitation last night.

“After all, we have a history.” If he could, he might just crow like a rooster.

But underneath the gloating is a hint of nervousness and wariness. He snatches Fiona’s hand and yanks her toward him. She drops the bouquet, but he doesn’t seem to care or notice as he wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her tight against him.

“I’m not here to toast to you,” I say. I slide my eyes in Fiona’s direction.

She’s pale, sweat filming along her hairline.

“What you said in my office—is it still valid?” The question is her last chance to make her stance clear—me or Jude.

Not that I’m going to change my plan to fuck up this wedding.

But her answer will determine how I’m going to fuck it up.

Her eyebrows pinch together. “Well—”

“Yes or no?” My voice is cold. A small part of me—the one that’s never gotten much wiser over the years—wants to say, Choose me, Fiona. You’ve always abandoned me—always chosen him over me. So pick me this time .

She licks her lips. “Yes. But—”

“Fine.” I raise my hand, palm up. “Let’s finish our talk.”

“Our talk…?”

“The favor.”

She reels back a little, as though dazed. She stares at my hand, her eyes unfocused.

I cock an eyebrow, hiding an unfamiliar feeling of uncertainty.

Is she going to pick him? I’m not exactly sure what I’ll do if she does, but it won’t be pretty.

She doesn’t get to blast into my life, then invade my dreams. She doesn’t get to send photos and dare me to do something about her situation, then act innocent.

A slight tremor racks her body. Indecision fleets across her beautiful face, calculation flashing in her eyes. Even now she’s trying to weigh me and Jude, to see who’s going to benefit her more.

Just what the hell did Jude promise her? Respect as his wife? His wealth?

Suddenly she lunges forward toward me. My heart crows with jubilation.

Finally.

“You whore!” Jude grinds out, then runs after her.

Her cumbersome dress must’ve tangled with her feet—she starts to fall.

Shit. I lunge forward and catch her, then in one smooth motion push her over a shoulder. Her weight feels good. Too good.

Aaron steps forward, his face red. Numerous guests rise, without any idea what they want to do.

Sherry Oberman only counts some beads and murmurs things under her breath, seemingly oblivious.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Aaron shouts like a clown.

“Sealing a deal and saving the family,” Fiona mutters.

I start walking out.

“Stop! She’s my woman!”

I feel something tugging me and Fiona back. I spin around. Jude is gripping the end of the train, his knuckles white. Ah. That explains the little backward jerk.

Jude’s face is twisted with impotent fury and embarrassment. I almost laugh at the scene. Seeing him like this is surprisingly entertaining.

“Put her down!” He reaches for Fiona. “She’s mine—”

With great relish, I kick his knee hard enough to make it crunch. He yelps in shock and pain. His eyes bulge, and a vein stands out in his forehead as he wraps his hands around the knee.

What a beautiful sight. Hope the moment is forever etched into his brain.

I yank the train out of Jude’s hand, then turn around and start to leave, with Fiona on my shoulder. Unable to resist, I raise my voice loud enough to carry. “Might want to do something about your grip strength if you plan to use that hand for more than just jerking off.”