Page 84 of The Billionaire's Christmas Bride

"If it wasn’t for your…your…broken finger...I’d..."

"You’d..."

"Teach you a lesson."

"Go on," he drawls, "try me."

"Don’t say I didn’t warn you," I mumble.

"I’m soooo afraid." He holds up his hands, as if to ward off an attack. "Princess Buttercup and her idle threats. Has no one warned you not to play with the big bad wolf?"

"Your references are all mixed up," I snarl.

"And that disgusting mixture in that bowl… Is that the best you can do for breakfast?"

That’s it, I am letting him have it. He can say anything about me, but my cooking? No fucking way. I am bloody good at what I do, and no one, definitely not a neanderthal, alpha billionaire can take that away from me. I make a noise deep in my throat.

His features brighten, "Ooh, did I hurt your feelings? Does the princess want to be saved from herself, yet?"

"Newsflash, alphahole." I shove my hand behind me, search for the mixing bowl. "This Princess can save herself."

My fingers brush the smooth surface, I snatch the vessel, fling its contents at him.

22

Weston

"Oops." Her lips quiver and her chin wobbles. She drops her gaze to my chest.

I glance down to find splotches of the brown gooey mixture sticking to my pullover. "That item of clothing costs £7000," my voice is calm. No hint of the anger that bubbles up inside… Along with something else—frustration. 48 hours… I’ve tried to teach her to obey. I’ve ordered her to obey me, told her to follow my directions. I’ve walked naked in front of her, slept with my body coiled around hers. I’ve raced toward her when I thought she was in danger… Been on the phone making sure I could find a way to protect her… And what does she do? She greets me with this…this goop? A low growl rumbles up my chest.

She blinks, "Did you just…did you?"

"What?"

"You, ah, sounded like Max when he’s frustrated."

I glower, "Did you compare me to a bloody mutt?"

A snort spills from her throat.

The fuck?"Are you laughing at me?"

"Me?" She bites down on her lower lip. Her cheeks redden. She lowers the bowl—her hand trembles… Is it from my proximity or from the weight of the vessel? Maybe it’s fear of how I’ll react. Good. The blasted container dips. I grab hold of it.

"Ah, thanks," her voice is strangled.

"Don’t thank me." I reach past her, lower the bowl to the counter.

"Wait," she bursts out.

"What?" I frown.

She angles her body, scoops up some of the mixture. She glances from it to me, "It, uh, has chocolate."

"So?"

"I missed a spot."