Before she can finish her sentence, I snatch the phone from her hand. She lunges for it, but I hold it out of reach, my free hand catching her wrist when she tries to grab it back.
“Damien,” I read from the screen over her head, my voice deadly. “Your Irish ex.”
“Give that back?—"
“’Missing you,’” I continue reading his message out loud before firing off a glare at her. “Make no mistake, this ends now, princess.”
Her face goes pale, but her chin lifts defiantly. “Fine, then let me go and it’s done.”
“Not what I meant, and you know it.” I scroll down to see what she was typing. “’I know. Just have to get through today and then?—‘”
“Bronx, stop?—"
“Planning your escape already?” She stills at the rage in my voice. “Your ex thinks this marriage is temporary?”
“He doesn’t know about the marriage,” she says through clenched teeth. “And, for the record, it is temporary.”
I delete the entire message thread with quick taps, then navigate to his contact information and block the number. “Consider that relationship officially over.”
“You can't just delete?—"
“I just did.” I toss the phone back to her, and she fumbles to catch it. “I can do whatever I want. You're about to become my wife, which means you belong to me. No more texting other men. No more secret conversations. No more fucking ex.”
She stares down at the phone, her breaths short and sharp.
“I hate you,” she whispers.
“Good. Hate is just passion in disguise.” I straighten my tie, perfectly calm now that I've eliminated the problem. “And passion is exactly what this marriage is going to need.”
She looks back up at me, and there's murder in those blue eyes. Also something else…something that makes her pupils dilate slightly and her lips part. She's furious and aroused and hating herself for both, I’d bet my left nut on that.
“Let’s go,” I say shortly. “The car’s downstairs waiting.”
The air is toxic in the backseat of the car, polluted byhatred and distrust and resentment. Riding next to her, breathing her in, equal parts perfume and hostility.
Tierney sits pressed against the passenger door like she's planning to throw herself out at the next red light. The white dress looks perfect on her, and the fury in her face only makes her more beautiful.
“You know,” I say, adjusting my cufflinks, “most brides look happy on their wedding day.”
“Most brides aren't being forced into marriage by psychotic criminals.”
The venom in her voice makes my blood heat. “Psychotic? That's harsh, princess. I prefer ‘selectively violent.’”
She doesn't respond, just keeps staring out the window like the Manhattan street view might offer her an escape route.
It won’t.
“The silent treatment won't make this go away,” I tell her. “In twenty minutes, you'll be Mrs. Viacava whether you sulk about it or not.”
That gets a reaction. She whips her head around to glare at me, and the full force of that Irish temper hits like a slap. “Never call me that.”
“What? Mrs. Viacava?” I grin. “Better get used to it, princess. It's going to be your name for a very long time.”
“Six months,” she snaps. “Six months and then this whole bullshit, charade is over.”
“Keep telling yourself that, princess.”
“Oh trust me, by the end of six months, you’re going to be begging for your bachelor freedom,” she sneers.
