Page 12 of Guilty as Sin

The sharp angles of his face look ready to slice me open, and his neatly trimmed beard gives the impression he’s skilled with a blade. The auburn in his hair is so vibrant in this soft lighting it reminds me of blood. Though I can’t see his gray-green eyes from here, I know they’re piercing. I know the thrill I feel when he pins them on me. My husband’s gorgeous eyes and all the intensity behind them.

My dream husband.

For half a heartbeat, I want this dream to be real.

Then Brady catches me unintentionally gawking at him, and my entire body flushes with heat. He starts to excuse himself from the group, but Liam says something in his ear. Brady nods and stays where he is, while Liam walks away. As Brady continues to stare at me across the dinner tables and dance floor, I can’t bring myself to hold his gaze, so I watch Liam instead.

The eldest O’Sullivan son strides to the far corner, where a haze of cigar smoke hovers over clustered armchairs. Declan O’Sullivan sits holding court, surrounded by other men in their sixties. They all clearly defer to him as the patriarch of this mafia family. To his right, Orla is the only woman in the group. She sits relaxed in her own leather armchair, and, to my surprise, is puffing away on her own cigar. Somehow she manages to make it look both feminine and deadly.

Liam bends down to give his mother a kiss on the cheek. He looks out of place among the older men, but not ill at ease. He gestures vaguely back toward Brady in his circle of younger men. It’s as if only Liam has the ability to move between the two groups, distinct as they are.

His mother nods, and they both turn to look at me. Under their scrutiny, I stiffen. I know I look good, no smeared makeup or flyaway hair as of two minutes ago.

But I’m not being judged on my looks.

Orla gives me a faint frown of disapproval, while Liam openly sneers.

I fucked up. Walking down the aisle by myself, insisting that I and I alone be the person to give myself away into my unwanted future. By doing this on my own terms, I’ve shot myself in the foot with the O’Sullivan family. Orla and Liam turn back to each other, dismissing me.

I’m an outsider at my own wedding.

No, this is not my dream.

Chapter 6

Cora

Brady whistles cheerfully to himself as he escorts me out of the ballroom and toward the elevators. It takes me a moment to recognize his tune is “I Only Have Eyes for You.” I refuse to think of it as our song, but for some reason, it makes my shoulders unbunch, just a bit.

When the elevator doors open, my new husband gestures for me to step in first. He floats his hand over my lower back, but he doesn’t touch me. Though I take that as a good sign, I’m still mentally rehearsing my speech. I really only have bits and pieces of it prepared.

No, I will not be performing any “wifely duties.” And, I am my own person, and you will respect that. And even, Keep your fucking hands to yourself.

The elevator climb is short and smooth, but my stomach lurches. By the time Brady gestures me into our honeymoon suite, all of my insides are churning. He closes the door behind us, and the light snick of the lock clanks in my ears like the padlock on my tomb.

“Champagne?” Brady asks me, casual as can be as he saunters over to the bar. There’s now a champagne bucket with a new bottle of Dom chilling in it, and two new champagne flutes.

“No, thank you,” I say firmly.

Brady quirks an eyebrow at me but says nothing. He pops the champagne so loudly the cork flies clear across the room, bouncing twice and rolling to a stop near the open door to the bedroom.

He shucks off his jacket before pouring himself a glass, then kicks off his shoes and flops down onto the plush loveseat. Staring at me with his piercing eyes, he takes a large sip of champagne. I look away.

His jacket and shoes lie haphazardly on the floor, and I realize my billionaire husband must have an army of housekeepers to clean up after him. I also realize my feet are killing me.

Brady tracks my every move as I make my way to the bar, slip out of my heels, and leave them neatly in the corner between the bar and the wall. I hear him chuckle at my meticulousness, and my temper flares. I whirl on him.

He’s smirking at me. With deliberate slowness, he glides his free hand over the empty cushion beside him, then lightly pats it twice.

“No, thank you,” I say again.

Brady shrugs and sets his champagne on the side table. With practiced fingers, he unties his bowtie and tosses it to the floor. All of his movements are languid, as if to intentionally stretch out time as I watch him. After undoing the top three buttons of his shirt, he leans back with his hands behind his head.

Everything about him screams confident, powerful, arrogant.

I hate him for it.

But whether or not I hate someone, I’m always mindful of the power they wield, especially how it compares to mine. Call it part of my willfulness, my constant awareness of my inner strength. Brady O’Sullivan’s power might dwarf mine for now, but I know my potential.