Page 7 of Thorns of Deceit

“I’m thirty-one,” he gritted through a clenched jaw, then hesitated before continuing. “I’m hardly an old man, but it does feel like I’m robbing the cradle.” He sighed. “Better than killing you though, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Is it?”

“Just say the word, Raven Croft,” he said quietly. “If you’d rather die, I’ll oblige.”

I swallowed hard. Both were bad options. For Christ’s sake, I’d barely started living. I had so many bad decisions left to make. That was the point of life… Wasn’t it?

“So if we get married, I’m no longer in danger?” I asked finally. “I’m untouchable?”

He tilted his head, eyes locking with mine. “Exactly.”

My heart drummed against my rib cage, threatening to break free. Or maybe it was warning me about this man and the slightly different cage I would enter if I agreed to his ridiculous proposition.

“Okay.”

One simple word, and my fate was sealed.

Aiden reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, black velvet box. He tossed it onto the table beside us with a dull thud.

“The priest will be here in ten minutes,” he announced.

“A p-priest?”

His jaw clenched as he gritted out, “Yes. Once my ring is on your finger, there’ll be no way out. I’m Catholic, after all.”

He said it as if that explained everything, yet it meant nothing to me.

FOUR

AIDEN

Jesus Christ, I was marrying a fucking toddler.

Okay, not literally.

She was nineteen, technically legal, but she looked like someone who should be stressing over prom dresses and final exams, notvows.

Then again, judging by the cheap vodka fumes rolling off of her indisposed mother, the girl clearly had bigger demons to deal with.

I pinched the bridge of my nose.

Marry her or kill her.

Two options and neither sat well with me. Not that the latter was even on the table anymore, since Uncle had learned who the girl was. I agreed to this disaster of a plan, and while I swore I’d protect her, I certainly wouldn’t be touching her or sharing a bed with her.

I took in the young woman seated on the edge of the worn-out chair, her spine straight, her fists clutching the material of her red dress—an outfit that would have made her look much older if it weren’t for her bare feet and wide, fear-stricken eyes.

Raven Croft.

The universe had gotten one thing right because the name suited her perfectly. Her silky hair resembled a raven’s feathers and her green eyes called to mind damp moss-covered forests. And despite her obvious fear, she emanated a quiet kind of defiance, an obvious “fuck you” shining in her gaze.

Neither of us was happy about this outcome, but she was handling it better than I expected, and that in itself warranted some respect.

Then the three sharp knocks came.

Raven flinched at the sound and her eyes flew wide, that “fuck you” swiftly replaced with dread.

“Come in,” I called out, and the door creaked open.