Chapter 8

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What a mutually-beneficial arrangement…

Briar

"Absolutely not," Rowan says, and I bite back my sigh. Things were going so well. And now they're up in flames again. For a mafia boss, he's such a sensitive boy.

Crossing my ankles on the dash of his car, I fold my arms and keep my attention fixed out the window. "I don't see what the big deal is."

"Really? You really don't see what the big deal is?"

"You're overreacting." A little gaslighting never hurt anyone. Unless one considers becoming a prisoner in their own mind "hurtful." Considering Rowan has already managed to accomplish that without my help, however, I feel completely guiltless. "It's not that big of a deal."

"Faking a relationship is one thing. Claiming you as my fiancee is another."

"What part of date me with the intention to marry did you not understand?" Gasping, I cover my mouth. "Don't tell me. It's so uncommon for you to be near a woman that the notion of you dating someone alone would create an adequate enough uproar to cover all our devious schemes."

He laughs robotically, without smiling. "Yes. Exactly that. I'm glad we've come to an understanding."

I stare dully at him until he catches my disapproving eye.

His roll. "You kidnapped me the night we met. I'm fresh out of—" He curses. "—to give. I've never had time for or interest in dalliances. Women are conniving and more trouble than I have patience for."

"You're getting better at compliments."

"Is it too soon to tell if you're making me lose my hair?"

I check my nails. "Well, I hardly think I'd have anything to do with that, grandpa."

"Grandpa?"

"Sorry. You're right. You're not quite that old." Propping my elbow on the console between us, I smile wryly. "Would you prefer I call you daddy?"

Every muscle in him tenses. "Don't. You. Dare."

"Shame I like breaking rules." I wait just a second. "Do you like breaking rules, too, daddy?"

"Briar."

A giggle erupts in my chest. "This is nice."

"This?" he spits.

"Us."

His head shakes as he takes the exit leading toward the quiet outskirts of the city. "There isn't an us until I agree, and you're—seemingly intentionally—making that impossible."

"Are you allergic to having fun?"

His brow furrows for a moment, then he says, "Yes."

"Lies. You have a bird."

"I fail to see how my owning a bird is relevant information."

"What kind of unfun man has a little bird?"

His big chest fills with air. "What kind of mafia is run by a lolita in tights?"

My mouth drops open.

I'm not wearing tights right now. I was wearing tights before. Briefly. Quite briefly. Clearly, the image of me in tights ingrained itself in his mind. He likes me in tights.

I hereby solemnly swear to not abuse this information (completely and utterly and without restraint).

His fingers comb through his hair as he releases a harsh sigh. "Given your display earlier in front of my men, it's too late to completely sever any connection between us. Therefore, I can tentatively agree to pretend we are in a romantic relationship, so long as you're careful and understand that if people assume you're important to me, it might make you a target. It serves no purpose to go a step further and pretend you're my fiancee. I'm almost positive you've only mentioned it because you, for some unfathomable reason, enjoy toying with me."

"It's not all that unfathomable, is it?" I mean, seriously, he's flippin' adorable. Big and gruff…with large and clearly-marked buttons. Beep, boop. Please. They're color-coded and everything. As if anyone could resist.

His face screws up. "And another thing, my bird's name is not Oreo."

I let free a low whistle as he rolls up to the Veleno property gate and lowers his window so he can put in the code. "How long have you been holding that one in?"

"I was too tired last night to bother correcting you," he mutters.

"Aw. Look at us." I bring my clasped hands to my lips. "We're already arguing like an old married couple. If you're so against calling me your fiancee, we can skip right to husband and wife."

The gate creaks open as he turns a ferocious look on me. Glowering down the tip of his nose, he says, "You wouldn't survive a single night with me as your husband."

"Is that a promise of swift domestic homicide or a reference to consummation in conjunction with our notable size difference?"

His gaze peruses my face—from eye to eye, to nose, to lips. When he puts his attention back on the road, he's stony serious. "No comment."

Well then.

Shaking my head, I lean back and glance out the window once more. "The reason for claiming me as your fiancee is simple—we want the people in charge of the Maxim Project to think we've given up on hunting them. A political arrangement that joins our families together is the perfect guise to show we're moving forward and abandoning all hope that our parents are…still alive." My chest tightens, so I grip my fist and look at him. "Rosanera aligns with the direction that you'd like to take Veleno. It's a believable ally for you. Unless, of course, you have reason to believe that the people in charge of kidnapping our parents and breadcrumbing us after them know about your emotional impairment? If that's the case, you're right. If they're aware how badly you suck at relationships, they'd be onto us if we imply that you're capable of such a political move."

He mouths emotional impairment and rolls his eyes as he guides the vehicle inside Veleno property, past the spattered homes of his made men and their families, up to the central manor where he lives.

"Well? How loud is your emotional incompetence, pet? Does your inability to maintain a relationship precede you?"

He doesn't play into my prodding and instead says, "Assuming they haven't already, what stops them from killing our parents if they think we've given up?"

My chest hurts, but I force a smile anyway. "You're forgetting that this whole fiasco is to distract us from something. If we stop putting energy into them and make a point of that fact, they might get nervous enough to up the ante. It may lead to proof that our parents are okay, or another clue that can bring us closer to our target."

He pulls up to and parks beside my car out in front of the neatly-trimmed lawn. Sunlight traces the granite steps ahead, painting the modern face of the building in a blinding white. It's such a different architectural style than the homey, earthy tones of The Giungla grounds. And, even as the sun burns against the siding, something about it is impossibly cold.

Resting his head back, Rowan closes his eyes and keeps his grip tight on the wheel. A muscle in his jaw ticks. His nostrils flare as he takes a breath. Eventually, he murmurs, "What could they possibly be distracting us from?"

I lift a shoulder. "Who knows."

His gaze pierces me for several long moments, then he pops his door open. "I need an assessment of everything Rosanera has a hand in. I need to know where we overlap and why they might be targeting both of us. That will give us some direction on where we might need to focus and what they're trying to draw attention away from." He kicks one long leg out of the car and looks back at me for confirmation.

I fold my hands in my lap. "That sounds like the kind of information I should only share with a family member."

He scowls.

"Or, potentially, with someone who will become a family member…" I blink, innocently. "…through marriage."

"Briar…" he grumbles.

I drop all my cuteness. "Listen, Rowan, I get it, okay? I know you have the social aptitude of a mossy rock, your best friend is a bird, and you've never even held hands with a woman before today. I'm not pressuring you to give up your innocence. I don't need PDA. All I'm asking for are a few well-placed rumors, which are already brewing." I scowl. "Quit being a baby."

"I'm n—"

"Wahh."

"Briar, I swea—"

"Wahhh."

His fingers flex before he slides fully back into the car and grips me around the jaw. "I swear, princess," he hisses between clenched teeth. "If I agree to this, you'll have to act the part of my fiancee."

I let my mouth drop open, shook. "It's like… It's like that's the whole point."

"I mean you'll have to act the part of someone I would actually want to be in a relationship with." His grip lessens and pulls away, so he can swipe his hand down his face. "I'm not okay with people thinking that…whatever you are…is my type."

"Ow, my feelings. Gracious, pet. You could have shot me instead."

Peering at me, he mutters, "And risk getting blood on my seat? No."

"Fine." I offer him my hand along with my most refined expression—something that lands between narcissist and constipation. "I won't embarrass you. Do we have a deal?"

"There's one last thing."

I lift a brow.

"Don't call my bird Oreo."

Eyes widening, I tamp down a laugh. Nice to know he's got his priorities in order. "Fine, I won't."

Nodding, he clasps my hand. "Then we have a deal."

Indeed we do. And, on an unrelated note, I am going to teach his bird to say "my name is Oreo" if it's the last thing I do.