13. Penn

Chapter 13

Penn

“ S tabler’s face when Benson drops the bombshell—” I can’t help it, I’m cracking up. Cheerios half-chewed and milk dribbling down my chin. The chaise beneath me groans as I shift, stretching out my legs. Law and Order SVU marathons are my guilty pleasure. There’s something about crime and punishment from Mariska Hargitay that just tickles my balls.

“Jesus, are you for fucking real right now?” Reagan’s voice slices through my amusement. I glance up, barely holding back a smirk. Her silhouette fills the doorway, all bitchy attitude. She’s got this glint in her eyes that screams ‘stay the hell away,’ but lucky for her and me that wouldn’t stop me.

“Hey, wifey,” I say, wiping milk off my chin with the back of my hand. “Did you know Stabler’s got a thing for handcuffs? I feel a deep soul connection to that man.” I waggle my eyebrows for effect.

“You’re disgusting,” she snaps, but there’s a flicker of something in her eyes. She’s amused and who wouldn’t be. I’m goddamn funny. She crosses her arms over her chest, pushing her tits up out of the black St. Charles football tank top I gave her to change into earlier. I was tired of her yapping about letting her sleep in her work clothes. She didn’t even appreciate the damn veil I had made for her.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been called worse,” I shoot back, popping another spoonful of Cheerios into my mouth. Crunch, chew, swallow. All while keeping my eyes locked on her. Fuck, it feels good to play with someone who isn’t so easy to break.

“Seriously, Penn. You’re watching TV like some rich frat boy instead of oh, I don’t know figuring out how you’re going to explain the whole kidnapping, marriage, and general dislike I have for you.”

“You only dislike me because society tells you to. Have I harmed you? Did I violate you? No, I have not. It was a little harmless drugging, kidnapping and marriage,” I say, shrugging as I run my hand through my curls, tugging on a couple of them at the nape of my neck.

“What’s your problem? Were you dropped on your head a lot?” Reagan steps closer. Her presence is magnetic, even when she’s pissed. Especially when she’s pissed.

“I don’t have problems. I have solutions and look at you being here and Mrs. Blackwood. A fucking solution.” I lean back, letting my eyes drift back to the screen where Stabler is roughing up some perp.

“You’re unbelievable,” she mutters, but there’s no heat in it. Just that guarded edge she always carries, like armor against the world.

“Unbelievably charming?” I flash her a grin, knowing it’ll only piss her off more. But that’s part of the fun.

“Try infuriating,” she says, but there’s a softness in her tone now. She better be careful before I think she actually likes me .

“Infuriatingly attractive,” I correct, saluting her.

“Whatever, psycho. I ordered a rideshare to take me back to my apartment.” Her tone is all business now, like she’s trying to regain control.

“Good luck with that,” I laugh, shaking my head. “You might as well cancel it.”

“Uh, no. I need to get back to my place, change, and head to class,” she says, each word dripping with irritation.

“Your apartment is empty,” I say casually, not even bothering to look at her. My eyes are glued to the screen, where Miss Olivia Benson is about to eye fuck the hell out of Stabler. She needs to dog walk that man and have him crawl to her. Now that’s a fucking idea. “So, you’ll be going back to nothing.”

“Excuse you?” Her voice rises an octave, and I can feel her glare burning into the side of my face.

“There’s a duffle bag with some of your shit by the door,” I continue, waving my hand dismissively. “I just haven’t had the chance to give it to you yet but it’s enough for you today including your personal pharmacy. The marathon started, and I got sucked in.”

“Are you serious right now?” she demands, stepping closer, her presence looming over me like a dark cloud.

“Dead serious,” I reply, finally tearing my eyes away from the TV to meet hers. There’s fire there, pure and unfiltered. It’s captivating. I fucking love playing with fire.

“Fuck you, Penn,” she spits, but there’s something else in her eyes. Something vulnerable.

“Oh, by the way, you don’t go to St. James anymore.”

Her mouth falls open, and for a split second, she looks genuinely lost. It’s almost cute .

“You’re now officially a student at St. Charles. Congrats,” I continue, savoring every syllable.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!”

“Yeah, all tied up in a neat little bow, just for you.” I can’t help but smirk, relishing the chaos I’ve created.

“You’re a real piece of shit,” she hisses, but there’s a crack in her tough exterior.

“I am well aware. You didn’t think I was just going to let my wife live her life away from me, did you?” I reply, leaning back with a satisfied smirk.

“Get out of my face, Penn.” Her voice is barely above a whisper now, raw and exposed.

“Make me.” I taunt, leaning in closer. Our breaths mingle. “Or admit you like it when I take charge.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but I cut her off with a wave of my spoon. “Relax, you’ve got plenty of time. Class starts in an hour. More than enough to do whatever you need. A deal is a deal, after all.”

“God, I hate you,” she mutters, storming off toward the door, but I can hear the conflict in her voice.

“Make that fifty minutes, Reagan!” I call after her, unable to keep the amusement out of my voice. “Don’t be late.”

“Go to hell, psycho!” she yells back.

I spend the next hour cleaning up the mess I made in the house and changing my own clothes.

I’m leaning against the kitchen counter, twirling my keys around my finger. Reagan reappears—ripped jeans, combat boots, band t-shirt. Wifey’s little signature look.

“Nice look,” I comment, tossing her a black riding jacket. She catches it mid-air, eyes still burning with residual anger.

“Fuck you,” she mutters, though there’s a flicker of something softer beneath the venom.

“You would like that too much,” I retort, slipping on my own jacket. We head outside, the mid-morning air crisp and biting. My bike gleams under the sunlight, two matte black helmets perched on it. So, I got us his and hers lids, and she better fucking appreciate it.

“Are you going to drug me again?” Reagan spits, her words laced with venom as I move behind her. “I fail to see how you’ll get me on your two wheels of death, then.”

“Shut up, you sexy, mouthy bitch. You had no problem with the bike before, so stop being combative because it’s your go-to defense mechanism,” I growl, fingers deftly weaving her long, dark hair into a tight braid. Her hair is fucking silky soft, and I hate how fucking comforting I find it to have my fingers in it.

“Seriously, Penn?” She tries to twist around, but I hold her steady, forcing her to face forward.

“Hold still.” My voice is rough, almost tender, in its command. “There, now put your fucking helmet on. I don’t want to listen to any bitching about hair in your face, or it being tangled, or any other countless things you can think of to bitch about.”

She huffs, clearly annoyed, but there’s a flicker of something else in her eyes. Gratitude? Hell, if I know. She snatches the helmet from my hand and shoves it on, adjusting the strap with quick, angry movements.

“Happy now?” she snaps, though her tone lacks its usual edge.

“Ecstatic.” I strap on my own helmet, feeling the familiar weight settle over me like a second skin. The world narrows to just us and the bike.

“Let’s go, wifey.” I mount the bike, holding out my hand like the fucking gentleman I am obviously .

“Don’t call me that,” she mutters, yet her fingers slip into mine, warm and surprisingly soft. She swings her leg over the seat, settling in behind me.

“You’re the only person I’ve let ride bitch on my bike,” I add, strapping on my own helmet. “Except that one time I picked Graham up after he blew a tire. But don’t mention that to him; he’d lose his shit.”

“Whatever,” she grumbles, her annoyance palpable.

As the engine roars to life, I feel the familiar rush of adrenaline.

“Hold on tight,” I shout over the noise, feeling her arms wrap around me.

We pull up to the St. Charles campus with Reagan gripping my waist like I was going a hundred down highway twenty-four. I mean I was, but she was never in danger. I am an impeccable rider. I rev the engine to gain entirely too many people’s attention. She hates this, and honestly, that might be why I love it so much.

“Hey, Mike! This is Reagan, my wife!” I shout over the engine, pointing at some random dude who looks like he just saw a ghost. His eyes widen, and he stammers out a greeting before scurrying away.

“Fucking hell, psycho,” Reagan mutters into my back, voice dripping with irritation.

“Careful, Mrs. Blackwood. Lucky for you, Coach would have my fucking ass and I’m already on thin ice. Otherwise, I’d be dragging your ass into the locker room, making sure every single one of those meatheads knows exactly who you are.” My words slither out, part threat, part promise. She groans, and I can feel the tension radiating off her.

We park, and I pull her off the bike, keeping an iron grip on her waist as we wade through the crowd. Eyes follow us like we’re royalty. And we are the first Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood.

I walk us right into our first class of the day and when she sees the course name; I feel her run right into my back.

“Serial Homicide? What the fuck, is this a joke?” Reagan snaps as we walk into the classroom.

“Not a joke, babe. Easy A for me. Who better to debate about killers than one?” I flash her my best smirk.

“I don’t even have the fucking words for you and…this.” She sweeps her hand around the classroom and I just shrug. I wasn’t lying. This is an easy class for me and also very informative. It helps with my extracurriculars.

“My art classes,” she demands, like a queen making a decree. “What about them?”

“Behave yourself, and I’ll have admin put you in any fucking art class you want. Hell, I’ll pay for private lessons if that’s what gets you off. Cost isn’t an issue.” Her stunned silence is golden. We take seats at the back, and I lean in close, savoring the smell of her frustration.

“By the way, dinner with my brothers tonight. They don’t know about you, but I may have let it slip that I was getting married. So, won’t be a complete blindside.”

“Fucking great,” she mutters, crossing her arms like she’s trying to shield herself from all the bullshit I’ve dragged her into.

“Fine, be like that,” I say under my breath, scrolling through my own phone, the tension between us thick enough to choke on. I finally break the silence.

“Stay here. I gotta take a leak,” I growl, tossing my phone onto the desk. Reagan doesn’t even look up, just stares daggers into whatever miserable abyss she’s conjuring behind those honey-brown eyes of hers.

“Yeah, yeah. How fucking charming?” she mutters, arms crossed tight enough to crack ribs. She really needs to loosen the fuck up.

“Class starts in five minutes. Don’t fucking move,” I tell her, my voice low and commanding.

Her eyes shoot daggers at me, but she stays put. Good girl.

The bathroom reeks of bleach, so at least it’s semi-clean. I relieve my fucking bladder because I drank too much fucking coffee this morning before tucking little Penn back into my pants.

I stop and wash my hands because if you aren’t washing your hands after holding your dick over a urinal, you’re fucking nasty. The mirror shows me a grin that says I’m in control. But beneath it, there’s always that itch of madness threatening to break loose. I splash some cold water on my face, trying to drown that feeling. I’m always feeling like my sanity hangs by one frayed thread.

When I return to the classroom, I see him—some blond, lanky motherfucker leaning over Reagan. His voice is too loud, his smile too wide. He’s got one hand on her chair, the other gesturing wildly like he’s auditioning to be the next fucking college death statistic.

“Hey there, you’re hot for a tall, gothic bitch.” he oozes, practically dripping sleaze.

I move fast, crossing the room in three long strides. My hand clamps down on his shoulder with enough force to make him wince.

“Sorry, Chad Michael Murray,” I purr, voice low and dangerous, “but that’s Mrs. fucking Blackwood to you. “

He tries to brush me off, but I tighten my grip, digging my fingers in until he yelps. “Mention my fucking wife’s height, style, or really anything again and you’ll be feeding my pet pigs,” I whisper, letting just enough of the psycho slip through to send him stumbling away.

Reagan watches the whole thing with an expression that’s half-amused, half-annoyed. When blondie finally scurries off, she turns those piercing eyes on me.

“Is this what I have to look forward to all the time?” she asks, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Of fucking course,” I reply, sliding back into my seat with a smirk. “The sooner everyone learns not to talk, touch, or breathe near my fucking wife, the more likely they are to keep all their fingers and toes.”

“Great,” she mutters, rolling her eyes.

“Chin up, hellfire. Consider me your own personal fucking pit bull. Everyone loves a fucking dog.” Reagan may hate this, but goddamn if it doesn’t make everything more interesting.

Professor Morgan walks in before she can say anything fucking snarky back to me, and I divert all my attention to him.

Pointless to attend this class and not pay attention.