Chapter 3

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Gasp. And it was a romcom.

Rowan

What the — is going on?

Somehow, the amalgamation of all three Powerpuff Girls drugged me, kidnapped me, tied me up, and greeted me after I came to with an entire boa constrictor around her shoulders. Whatever the bloody heck she's wearing, it hugs every curve like plastic wrap and does a number on my groggy head.

I don't know what suits her better—this or the cloud tights.

She's a goddess.

Who is fourteen years younger and torturing me in the weirdest, most unique way possible.

I should get her signed up to give a Masterclass: How to Get Everything You Want Out of Your Victim – Without Staining Your Cement. Some of the guys at The Casa could use the information. Then again, they'd probably need their eyes to be as doe shaped as hers to get anywhere using her methods. Barring that…

My gaze flicks down her slender legs before I jolt my attention off her completely. A slew of curses fills my head as her distinctly lemon and vanilla scent cloys in my nostrils.

I'm no stranger to pain, and I think I'd prefer it to whatever this is.

My heart lunges when she returns from the extravagant snake enclosure stretching the full length of the wall in front of me.

When she grasps the thin silver zipper at the base of her throat and pulls down, it feels like I've picked whatever hard way she was talking about earlier. My stomach tightens as, inch by inch, her clothes peel away from milk-white skin.

Threatening to shut off, my brain lags well after she stops the zipper just below her clavicle. Above her heart, the ink of a black rose stains soft flesh, and I recognize the symbol moments before she says, "My name is Briar Rosanera." Her fingertips graze the ink petals of her tattoo. "You'll either agree to my requests and be treated with respect, or I will expose you to torture unlike anything you've ever witnessed before."

Doubtful.

Involuntarily, I arch a brow.

"I wouldn't underestimate me, pet."

"I wouldn't call me pet, princess. I've seen more horrors than you've had the chance to imagine. I'm familiar with your family." I grimace. "It rarely inspires fear."

"Unlike yours." A humorless smile curls her full lips. "I'm aware."

Sickness twists in the back of my throat, but I don't justify that comment with a response.

"I keep tabs on my neighbors." She zips her top back up. "I know about your family's history and reputation. I've also noticed the shift since the Maxim Project got your parents. Part of Rosanera's…charm is the knowledge we have access to. My connections would put your entire organization to shame. More than that—" Her eyes stick on me, wraith-like and terrifyingly empty. "—I prefer a psychological torment to a physical approach. Skin-deep wounds heal far faster. You will either oblige my plan of your own free will, or I will strip you of everything that makes you up until you're afraid to sneeze without my permission."

"What's your plan?" I ask as though she isn't making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Something about her…is disturbing. Whether she's bluffing or not, she knows how to look the part of a deranged mastermind.

I know all too well that crazy people don't have limits. Their thoughts are untraceable. While they dredge through the minds of their victims on a whim, I never know what to expect in return. Their rules are always changing. All hope for lasting peace ends up being a mirage.

Proving my unspoken point, Briar offers her hand, takes a breath, and says, "Date me with the intention to marry."

My mind shatters.

Wh—

I blink.

My brow furrows.

She's insane. Actually insane.

That's just fantastic.

All I can come up with is: "I don't date people who tie me up."

"That's a boring answer."

Frankly, I do not have a better one.

When I don't rescind my reply or correct myself, her bottom lip juts. "I'll forgive anyone for anything—but only once. After the second time, I'll hold a grudge forever. So, let's try again: Rowan, Veleno, date me with the intention to marry."

She has got to be joking.

I grumble, "Are you having trouble finding a partner?"

Her lips tip down.

"Don't worry. I'm sure it's only on account of your personality."

Her head tilts, one trim brow rising. "Did you just call me pretty?"

"It wasn't a compliment."

Her mouth softens with the ghost of a smile. "Then why did it sound like one?"

I grunt. "Excellent circle back."

"Thank you."

"Mind untying me?"

"Not yet."

Yet, huh? Heaving a sigh, I shift against the chafing binds. "I'm going to assume your competence extends beyond effective knots. Give me the why behind this insane proposition, and maybe we can reach an effective compromise."

"Can't a socially-awkward young lady propose courtship to an emotionally-unavailable man without having to explain herself?"

I don't believe for a second that she's socially-awkward. Also… "What makes you think I'm emotionally-unavailable?"

"Please, Rowan. It's better for both of us if I don't go into all the reasons behind your emotional unavailability. While I do enjoy making grown men cry, we have more important things to deal with."

My shoulders sag. "We do. So why are you skirting around my questions?"

"To be fond of dancing is a certain step towards falling in love."

Not her quoting Pride and Prejudice. While I'm tied up. In her bedroom. Past midnight.

On. A. Weekday.

This is a nightmare.

Rocking my jaw, I mutter, "Shame you're not tolerable."

She brightens like a bomb going off. "Are you suggesting I am handsome enough to tempt you?"

My eye twitches. "Listen, princess, it's past midnight. We aren't going to reference Pride and Prejudice until I pass out from exhaustion."

When her lips return to that infuriating pout, her weeping eyes say, oh, but we could, and wouldn't that be fun? With any luck, my scowl returns a harsh, no, and—side note—untie me, you mad woman.

Deflating, Briar reaches into her boot and pulls out a slender knife. "I didn't want to have to do this."

I brace for the sudden, hot pain of a blade easing across my flesh like butter, or piercing into my muscle like sponge. Instead, she cuts the ropes around my hands and sits on me—again—to cut free the binds around my chest. When she's done, the knife goes back in her boot, and she folds her hands in her lap. "I believe it's within our best interests to collaborate on the downfall of the Maxim Project. I want my parents back; you want to know who you can trust now that you're in charge of your family and you need to know if your parents are still a loose end while you get a grasp on being your family's head. There's strength in numbers, in allies. The front of a political relationship between us will provide an alibi for our interactions while you gain your footing in Veleno. Whoever has done this is directly targeting at least us, maybe others. They're intentionally trying to distract us from something. It is within our best interests to watch each other's back. What do you say?"

Yeah, how about no? My fingers flex before I wrap them around her waist in order to lift her off me.

She scowls and swats my wrist. "Don't manhandle me, Rowan."

My hands snap away from her. "Then get off my lap!"

"And now you're raising your voice? This isn't the best start to a healthy relationship."

"I think our chances of having a healthy relationship were slim after you choked me." Huffing, I stare at her for a long moment. Then, I stand.

She slips gracefully off me, the picture of disappointment, while I bend to get my own knife out of my boot and cut my feet free. I'm shaking off the ropes and putting some distance between us before she says, "You wanna know something?"

At one in the morning? Not particularly. All the same, I say, "What?"

"Choking can totally be included in a healthy relationship."

My eyes close. I smooth my hands against my face, back through my hair. When I drop my arms, I'm convinced this woman will be the death of me in less than twenty-four hours. "No."

She plants a hand on her hip. "Yes. Agree to my plan, and I'll prove it."

Absolutely I think the frick not. I cock my thumb over my shoulder, toward the door. "I'm gonna go."

Stomping a pace closer, she locks her small hand in the fabric of my shirt. "Not until I say so."

Rolling my eyes toward the ceiling, I crack my neck. "You sure about that?"

?

Snickers float from the occasional passerby as I drag Briar through her manor, looking for the exit. With my knife to her throat, I assumed there would be more concern, but the perturbed look on her face and the way she's turned herself into dead weight has so far just made things more difficult for me.

It's late.

I'm tired.

I can't, for the life of me, find the way out.

"This is positively uncultured," Briar mutters, arms folded, lip in a forever pout.

"Shut up, princess." When a young man turns a corner up ahead, I fix my gaze on him. His eyes widen on the knife I have pressed to Briar's neck, and his gait falters. It's nice to see he's not laughing like the rest of the maniacs in this place. Tightening my grip around Briar, I say "Where're the stairs?"

"Don't tell him," Briar blurts, so I growl, clutch her tight, and lift her feet fully off the ground.

Lowering my head, I grumble, "Hush," then I turn my attention toward the man and mutter, "Stairs."

The man's eyes ping-pong between us several moments before he takes a deep breath and squares his jaw.

Briar laughs. "Good boy! Now, go on." She flicks her fingers at him. "Back to whatever you were doing."

Once the young man nods, makes an about-face, and vanishes, I jostle Briar, press the knife more solidly against her throat, and sneer. "Are you entirely oblivious to the position I have you in?"

Her eyes roll. "Weapons aren't used for threats, pet. If you were going to hurt me, you already would have. You have no backup. You can't overpower anyone here with just a knife. Hurting me would only make everyone mad. And since you're incredibly outnumbered, hurting me is a death wish. My boys understand that intrinsically, so you just look stupid." She covers her face with both hands. "Honestly? You're so embarrassing."

Embarrassing? Embarrassing? What is wrong with this woman? Swinging around, I set her on her feet, grip her chin, and growl, "You are getting on my last nerve."

Her lashes flutter. "That didn't take long. Are you sure? You have over seven trillion of them."

Releasing a low sound in my throat, I grab her hand and drag her behind me. She trips after my strides, the click of her boots hitting the tile at a more frantic pace than the steady pounds of mine.

"It's okay," she calls. "I understand this is a very frustrating situation. You're not used to when things don't go your way, and that results in some big feelings."

"Don't psychoanalyze me."

"I'm actually gentle parenting yo—" Her high-pitch squeak stops me in my tracks, and I whirl to find her kneeling, glaring dully up at me as she puts her weight on my arm to make it seem like she fell.

I believe I might scream. Lips pursing, I mutter, "What are you doing?"

"Proving that you're too nice." She rises, squeezes my hand, and steps in close. "You can't fool me, pet. I know what real bad men look like, and you aren't one of them. Give me one reason why you shouldn't pretend to date me with the intention to marry. Don't I have enough assets to be of use?"

My eyes fall across her assets, and I wince as I drag my attention off her figure. "I'm not interested in the fa?ade of a relationship. Nor do I have the energy to maintain a real one."

She tilts her head. "Trust me, I get it. In this line of work, relationships are messy. People you trust, people you took oaths beside, betray you for promises of more power or more money. You're sleeping with one eye open and constantly checking behind your back." Her fingers lace with mine, and a feline grin lifts the pale freckles across her cheeks. "Except, of course, when you think the only person behind your back is a young woman in a frilly dress."

A vein in my forehead pulses. "Listen up, princess—"

"Listen. You say that a lot. Are you not used to being heard?"

My eyes close. I free a tight breath. "You're obviously spoiled and clearly aren't used to being told no."

Her free hand lands on my chest. "Spoiled?"

"Entirely."

"I'm spoiled?"

I meet her large blue eyes. "Is this really a shock to you?"

She beams, swinging my hand, "Oh, no. I'm fully aware. It's one of my many, many, many charms."

For several long moments, I watch her, tracing the shape of her lips, her face, the slight hood to her eyes. For several blissful seconds, she's just beautiful. Not crazy. Not irritating. Not a woman who jumped on me, choked me, then drugged me and dragged me away from home in the middle of the night. She's just…pretty.

Back home, there aren't any unattached women. Every wife and daughter is off-limits—according to the oaths every made man takes when he joins. My childhood left no space for intimate exploration. The things I saw happening to women who weren't our wives and daughters but who were somebody's made me ill, and I never got my mind around the difference of why some women were precious enough to be protected, and others weren't.

Now that I've taken over the business, all I do is train and research and initiate and handle meetings and give orders and try to remind everyone that I'm not my parents' battered son. I am invincible. Numb to all the pain of torture I can deliver as though I don't have a soul.

My mother is the only woman I have anything resembling a relationship with.

And she is the furthest thing from the beautiful, bubbly, and threateningly gentle woman standing in front of me now.

I have no mental preparation to even act out a relationship, for any reason.

Yet, when Briar loses all her hubris, my chest feels as though my father has just broken my ribs.

"Please, Rowan. I need to find my parents," she says, voice soft. "Please. I can't do it alone."

It hurts to breathe. "I thought you had substantial connections."

"My family's connections get us far enough with information, but when it comes to application, it's like you said. No one fears Rosanera. Not like they fear Veleno."

"So this whole arrangement is so you can gain the weight of my name?"

She nods.

I sigh. "Why couldn't you have started there? In the morning? Over coffee?"

Youthful innocence shines in her clear blue eyes. Genuine, and sweet, she says, "I don't like coffee."

Forgetting I'm holding a knife, I nearly stab myself in the face. I untangle my hand from hers, put the knife away, and I scrub my fingers back through my hair. "You don't like coffee," I state.

Briar pins her arms behind her back, having the decency to look sheepish. "Is that a problem for our budding romance?"

"Just wondering where the—" I swear. "—we'd pretend to have a first date." The moment the words are out of my mouth, I regret them.

Light as brilliant as the sun explodes in her. "So you're agreeing to my plans?"

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't not say that."

"Aren't you kind of young for me?" I mumble.

She bats her lashes angelically. "Not on an emotional level."

My eyes narrow.

"I'm saying you have the emotional maturity of a newborn."

"I gathered that. Thanks."

Giggling—outright giggling, in a manor full of criminals—she slips her hand back into mine and guides me forward, toward the stairs.