CHAPTER SEVEN ARSÈNE

CHAPTER SEVEN

ARSèNE

Two weeks later

“Thanks for letting me crash with you.” Riggs wobbles out of the taxi behind me, hammered as a thousand goddamn nails.

I glance at my watch. “Letting is a big word. You followed me home, asshole. I had little choice in the matter.”

“C’mon, Ars. Everyone wants a stalker. Means you made it in life.” He slaps my back good-naturedly, his golden curls tumbling down his wide brow as he shakes his head.

“You’re an odd creature,” I grumble.

“Said the pot to the kettle.”

We make our way down the street to my apartment. I’d asked the taxi driver to drop us off before we reached our destination, worried my childhood friend would vomit all over his leather seats.

Riggs pushes his fists into his front pockets, whistling tunelessly.

“What’s your next destination?” I ask, trying to quiet my mind. Grace hasn’t contacted me these last couple of weeks. I know she’s still digesting the loss of her edge on me. She and I both know that through this will, I became too important for her to continue playing games with.

She knows I will ask for concessions—heavy ones. And she’s biding her time.

“North Jakarta,” Riggs replies.

I hmm.

“That’s in Indonesia, you uncultured swine.” He chuckles.

“When are you leaving?”

“Next week.” He kicks an empty soda can on the sidewalk straight into a trash can, in a curled free kick that would put Beckham to shame. “For three weeks. It’s kind of a perk, since I won Photo of the Year last year.”

The photo was of a lightning strike touching a sandhill crane’s wing. He caught the entire flock lifting off at the same time, flying in the same direction. The background was all purple and blue.

I have no doubt Riggs is full of all the dark matter artists are born with. But whatever darkness resides in him, he makes sure not to let anyone see it. The happy-go-lucky, handsome man chasing skirt and adventure is the version everyone gets, his best friends included. In a way, I suspect that he’s fucked up more than both Christian and me combined.

I shove the glass door to my building with my shoulder. We make our way to the elevator.

“Alfred, my good man.” Riggs bumps fists with my seventy-year-old doorman while I drag him inside. “How’s Suzanne doing? Hip surgery went well?”

“Beyond well, Mr.?Riggs. Thank you for sending flowers—it was most kind of you. She’s already up and about. Glad to have you back. Mr.?Corbin, I—”

“Not now, Alfred,” I bark, advancing toward the elevator. Riggs may be a nice guy to service providers, but he’s also a goddamn 180 pounds of muscles to carry right now, and drunk as hell.

“But sir—”

“I said I’m busy.”

Riggs knows Alfred’s wife’s name. Unbelievable. That asshole better rent an apartment in the city next year. My place is not a hostel, and he is starting to become too comfortable here.

We take the elevator up. Riggs squints at me. “Where are your manners, ass-face? Alfred is an elderly gentleman.”

“I don’t care if he is the pope himself.” I push the door to my apartment open.

“Now make yourself useful and order us a bite. Your treat.” I make it halfway across the living room before realizing Riggs has frozen over. He is standing in front of my couch, mouth open, eyes wide.

I stop.

Stare at my sofa.

Grace is sprawled on it, completely naked, save for a pair of red-soled high heels. She is sound asleep. Her pink nipples are erect, and there are goose bumps all over her skin.

What. The. F—

“Holy ravioli.” Riggs whistles. “I’m starting to get the whole screwing-your-sister kink. Still not my jam, but I’m broadening my horizons.”

“I’ll be broadening your ass if you don’t get out of here right this moment.” I turn to him, trembling with anger and elation.

Finally. Fucking finally. What took her so long?

“But I need a place to stay.” He grins provocatively, enjoying seeing me squirm.

“New York is the home of six hundred and seventy hotels. Go stay in one of them.”

“Bros before hos.” Riggs makes a show of yanking his bag from the floor and swinging it over his shoulder. He snaps his fingers, hanging his head down. “Oh, that’s right. She is your sister.”

He makes his way out the door, slamming it, but not before he salutes me. “Enjoy!”

I perch on the edge of the coffee table and stare at Grace for a few seconds. Her expression is peaceful. That’s how I know it’s all an act. Grace usually has a puckered frown on her face when she’s asleep. Like she uses this downtime to contemplate world domination.

“I know you’re awake,” I say.

I figure she realized I wasn’t alone when we got in and wasn’t in the mood to explain her state of nakedness.

Her face doesn’t flinch.

I sigh. “Riggs is gone, we have an important conversation that’s overdue, and I may not be in a charitable mood tomorrow morning, once the alcohol wears off.”

Her eyes flutter open. She sits upright, pouting like the spoiled princess she is. “Ugh, I hate most of your friends, but that one takes the cake, Ars. He acts like an actual frat boy.”

I say nothing. It’s been two weeks. She should be on her knees servicing me right now.

“I made you mashed potatoes with extra butter and onion bits, just like you like.” She stretches like a lazy cat, shooting me a grin. “And there’s a seasoned steak waiting to be thrown in the pan.”

She examines me, waiting for my words.

I tilt my head in the kitchen’s direction. “Well? Steak’s not gonna make itself.”

She stands up. I smack her ass lightly on her way to my kitchen, admiring her long legs in those heels. She rolls her shoulders as she takes the raw steak out of the fridge, probably to relieve the tension building in her body.

“Grace.” My voice is cold as a sharp blade, traveling down her neck.

“Hmm?”

“Come here when you’re done.”

While I wait for my steak to fry, I enjoy a glass of Moet & Chandon and a hearty blow job. She is on her knees, bobbing her head enthusiastically back and forth, taking more of me in than she normally does. I stand casually by the window, watching the darkness engulfing the tree-filled park while Grace fists my cock, sucking my balls into her mouth, her tongue massaging them.

I won. I know it. She knows it. Still, the satisfaction of having her in the palm of my hand is not as tangible, as glorious as I imagined it’d be. The fun part about Grace was always—always—the chase.

Dinner is pleasant. She smiles at me frequently, stroking my hand and asking if everything is to my taste. It is.

“Congrats on the will, by the way.” She finally gets to the point forty-five minutes after I woke her up.

“Strange choice of words, but thanks. Congrats on the theater.” I cut a juicy piece of steak and pop it into my mouth. “What’re you going to do with it?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She twirls her champagne glass by the stem, lost in thought. “I have a call with my financial adviser next week. I’ll know more then. You don’t think there’s a way to turn this into a profitable venture, do you, Ars?”

I think it’s an endless money pit designed to appease the females the Corbin men are enamored with and is a waste of brick and mortar.

“No.”

“Maybe I’ll sell it, then.”

“Don’t expect a substantial revenue. It’ll take a lot of money and a few miracles to turn that place around and make it appealing.”

“You’re so smart.” Grace sighs, beaming at me. “We’ll revisit this subject after I take a good look at it. I’m sure you can help me out with that big brain of yours.”

I put my fork down, tired of this tedious charade. “What took you so long?”

She knots her arms over her chest defensively. “What do you mean?”

“I mean coming here. Don’t play dumb.”

“Nothing. I .?.?. I don’t know.” She throws her hands in the air. “Can you blame me? I guess it’s hard, coming to terms with the fact that you’re in love with your stepbrother. A stepbrother you haven’t always been kind to. It’s been a pretty difficult month.”

“In love with me?” I splutter.

The timing, the convenience of it, makes it all transparent. She isn’t in love with me. With my money, maybe. And as much as I want to marry her, her lies are transparent at best and offensive at worst.

“Of course I’m in love with you, Arsène. Why else would I be with you for so many years?”

Because you’re an attention-seeking Erinyes, and you simply can’t let a good marriage prospect go to waste.

Grace is thirty-three. Still young, but not so young not to think about who she’d want to procreate with one day. She is a calculating creature, always five steps ahead in the game. When it comes to profitable ventures—I am one.

“You love me?” I ask again, sitting back.

“Yes.” She narrows her eyes, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “Why is this so weird to you? Don’t you love me?”

“I’m not sure.”

But I am. I’m sure and a half. I’m sure and fucked as a daytime hooker, because loving her brings me no joy. No fulfillment. I’ve come to think of love as a prison guard. Something you resent, not cherish.

“Your sudden declaration is awfully convenient. I’m going to need to ask for some receipts for this so-called love,” I drawl out.

“You literally had your cock in my mouth not even twenty minutes ago. While you were texting on your phone!” she thunders, her cheeks hot with fury.

I offer her a cold smile. “You like to feel a little manhandled. Helps you loosen up after being a ballbuster all day at work.”

She rolls her eyes. “You want proof, fine. What’d you have in mind?”

We are having this conversation like we are conducting business. I like it. How like minded we are.

“I want you to move in with me,” I say dryly.

She nods. “Okay. I can do that. What else?”

“You will also marry me,” I continue matter-of-factly. “Although I understand this can be delicate news to break, considering the timing and circumstances. I’ll allow you a few months to smooth out the rough edges. Prepare the soil, so to speak.”

“Marry?” Her eyebrows lift, her eyes widening with open, unabashed pleasure. She is keeping her excitement out of it, not wanting to acknowledge her own disadvantage in our negotiations. “I didn’t peg you as the marrying type.”

“Marriage is a perfectly pragmatic endeavor.” I pick up my fork and take a bite of the rare steak, its bloodied juice running down my tongue. “I’m a fan of institutions. They stand the test of time because they’re functional. Marriage is a good, low-risk investment. I need heirs, stability, and a house outside this goddamn city. The tax relief isn’t lost on me either.”

While this little speech is not going to win any romance awards, it hits the mark. Now that Grace knows Douglas didn’t make her a multimillionaire, I have my foot on her throat.

“Is this a marriage proposal?” Her dark eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets.

“It’s a declaration of intention.”

“All right.” She gives her shiny hair a pat. “Provided I get a ring big enough to be spotted from Mars. I want something gross and distasteful. Something that’ll make every woman I know despise me.”

I don’t have the heart to tell her most women she knows already hate her.

Either Grace is shit at negotiations and I gave her far too much credit, or she is desperate for this bargain. At any rate, she’s given up the fight too willingly, and I wonder why. She’s spent the last decade dumping me every few months and dragging me through all her drama .?.?. only to say yes to a proposal? What’s her angle?

“You’ll sign a prenup,” I announce.

Her face falls. “Why? It’s not like we’re ever going to—”

I lift a hand up. “I enjoy you, Grace. More than I should. But make no mistake. I trust you no more than tomorrow’s National Enquirer headline.”

She lets out a laugh. “You’re terrible.”

“That can’t be news to you.”

“Fine. But I reserve the right to have three lawyers go over this prenup.”

“Have a hundred, sweetheart.” It doesn’t matter. I’m going to get my way and ensure my wealth is safe from her, just like my father had with her mother.

“Now, go wait for me in the bedroom while I wash the dishes.” I stand up.

She hesitates at first, loitering, as if she has something more to say, then gets up on her feet.

My back is to her when she starts walking. I watch her from the kitchen window’s reflection. “Did I say go? I meant crawl.”

Turning my head, I watch her spine stiffen as she gives it a brief thought.

“You like to humiliate me, don’t you?”

Not particularly. But I know she likes it, and I play our game very well.

“That’s fine, Ars. The trouble is, I like to be humiliated by you too. I know you don’t love me .?.?.” She draws in a breath. “No, don’t even try to deny it. What you have for me is not love. It’s obsession. It’s always been obsession. I’ll still take it.”

Slowly, she lowers herself on all fours and crawls toward my bedroom, her magnificent ass in the air. I do love her. Of course I love her. Why else would I put up with everything she’s put me through?

I want to tell her to get up. But something stops me. A searing pain that slashes through my chest every time I remember how she deprived me of the only family I knew. How cruelly she screwed me over.

I wash the plates and the pan, then rinse the champagne glasses. Drying my hands on my way to the bedroom, I hear the water running in the en suite.

Grace appears in the doorway a minute later, in a sexy black lace baby doll.

Baby doll.The nickname makes me shudder. Why am I thinking of that country bumpkin all of a sudden? Never mind. Her simpleton face has already disappeared from my mind.

Grace approaches me and drags her fingernail over my throat.

“I was thinking .?.?.” The tip of her tongue travels along her top lip. “How about I give you VIP access to my back end?”

I stare at her. Did she just offer me anal sex? Like we’re teens? We’ve never discussed it before. I wasn’t under the impression this was something she’d be interested in.

“Why?” I question.

“What do you mean?” Her smile crumbles. This wasn’t the reaction she was shooting for. “I want to make things special for you. We’re moving in together. We just discussed marriage.” She swallows hard, taking a step back. “Plus, you’ve always liked unorthodox things. I thought maybe you wanted to get a little kinky.”

I don’t want her to give up things she doesn’t want to give because the cards have shuffled and changed in my favor.

“Oh, come on!” She rolls her eyes. “Don’t pretend like you don’t like it when I squeeze my tits together and you fuck the gap between them until you come into my mouth.”

We definitely have some room for growth on the sweet talk side.

I give her a leveled look. “That idea was born of you being bored and horny while you were on your period, remember?”

“Well, now my idea is to have anal sex!” She is shouting at me, never a good look when trying to seduce someone. “What’s so hard to understand?”

“Let’s pin this generous offer for when you’re feeling less grateful and I’m not as power drunk.” I fist the back of her hair, extending her neck. “Now be a good girl and get on all fours for me on the bed. It’s your best angle, anyway.”

She does, dragging her knees over the satin linen.

“Stare at the headboard. Don’t take your eyes off of it.” I circle her like a predator, knowing it’s making her hot for me.

When I put on a condom and finally enter her from behind, I find her as dry as a bone. Confused, I pull out slowly, not wanting to necessarily hurt her.

“Would you like more time?” I clear my throat, feeling surprisingly out of depth.

She reaches over and grabs the hem of my shirt. “No. Continue. It’s just .?.?. stress makes me that way sometimes. I’m having fun.”

“No offense, but you feel like sandpaper,” I say flatly. “Having sex is not mandatory.” I pull away from her, about to rip the condom off my cock.

She turns around and tugs at my shirt desperately. “No, no. Please. You have to fuck me.”

“Why?” I ask, flabbergasted. We’ve never had an issue like this before, but I don’t see the necessity in fucking tonight if she is not up for it.

“Because!” She is on the verge of crying. “I’ve missed you and I want you inside me, all right? Stop asking so many questions.”

I have an odd feeling that there is more to tonight than her not being wet. She usually bounces on my cock like it’s Sky Zone. Something’s up with her, but she’ll never confide in me.

“Please.”She pushes her ass toward me, her voice urgent. “Do it. Please. For me.”

Begrudgingly, I fuck her, slow and careful, holding her by the waist, watching her silken, raven hair spilling over her smooth back. She is still mostly dry, but every time I see her wince, I push my fingers into her mouth and use her saliva as lubricant, massaging her clit in the process in the vain hope she’ll get a little wetter.

“Are you sure this is okay?” I ask gruffly, feeling like a goddamn high schooler and hating every moment of it.

“It’s amazing. Ohhh, just like that. Please.”

“You don’t feel like you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Men know very little about the female body,” she barks out. “Don’t tell me what I’m feeling. I have my own agency.”

Closing my eyes, I try to finish as fast as I can. The sex is about as good as a week-old coffee. I’m half-mast, put out, and unsettled. So for the first time in my life I grunt a little, pretending to finish, then pull out as fast as I can.

When she rolls over underneath me, she grins up, cupping my cheeks. “That was so much fun, wasn’t it?”

Like grinding my dick over a nail file.

“Epic,” I mutter.

She leans forward to kiss the side of my mouth.

Subdued, I slide the condom off as I amble to the bathroom. I throw the condom into the trash and turn to the toilet to take a piss. Frowning, I crouch down to examine the pink residue around the rubber. Another unwelcome first.

“Grace?”

“Hmm?” she purrs from the room, grabbing the remote and flipping through channels.

“I think you bled.”

Her metallic laugh is bone rattling as it echoes around my room. “Did I? Oh, it used to happen to me all the time in college.”

“What does it mean?” I ask.

“No idea. I should really get it checked. I’ve been really stressed since the will. Didn’t even use my vibrator once.”

“Call your doctor tomorrow.”

“Yessir.”

I return to the bedroom and watch her, trying to strip down all the lies she is coated with to find out the truth. But she is so good at this. At the charade. She’s always been a beautiful liar.

“All right, future hubby. Come here now.” She reaches for me and drags me down onto the bed with her. “Let’s cuddle a little.”

Who. The. Fuck. Is. This. Woman?

“Since when do we cuddle?”

“Now we’re going to have to start!” she exclaims, back to being fake cheerful. “We’re about to get married, right?”

We try watching something together, but Grace is allergic to documentaries, and I don’t give two damns about stupid reality TV shows where people drink, gossip, and sell houses.

In the end, I let her watch something on Bravo and fall asleep.