Unwanted Wife: Dancing With The Blackwell Devil

The doors of the trailing SUVs flew open in unison.

Twelve men poured out. They didn't move like bodyguards; they moved like a strike team. Black tactical suits, earpieces, hands hovering over holstered weapons that were definitely not legal for private security.

They fanned out, forming a perimeter that cut the Graves family off from the outside world.

Grand Dame Graves let out a whimper, clutching her chest. Lord Graves looked like he might vomit on his Italian loafers.

Brooke didn't move. Her eyes were locked on the lead vehicle. The armored beast hissed as its hydraulic suspension lowered.

The rear door clicked.

A boot hit the gravel. Black leather, handmade, dusted with ash.

Elliot Blackwell emerged.

He wasn't wearing a tuxedo. He was wearing a black dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. He looked like he had just rolled out of bed, or a bar fight, or both.

He stood there, blinking against the sunlight, and ran a hand through his messy dark hair. He looked bored.

Then he looked up.

His eyes were dark, bottomless pits that seemed to absorb the light around him. There was no hangover in those eyes. Only a sharp, terrifying clarity.

He took a drag from a cigarette that shouldn't have been lit, exhaling a plume of grey smoke toward the terrified family.

"Where is she?"

His voice was low, a rumble of gravel and velvet.

The Grand Dame stepped forward, trembling. "Lord Blackwell... we... there has been a... a slight complication."

Elliot dropped the cigarette. He crushed it under his boot, grinding it into the stone.

"I'm not kidding," he said. "I asked where the bride is."

"She's indisposed," Mistress Yun squeaked from behind her husband.

Elliot laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. He snapped his fingers.

Click-clack.

Twelve safety catches disengaged on twelve weapons. The sound echoed like a gunshot.

"I don't have patience today," Elliot said, walking toward the stairs. "I have a hangover, and I have a schedule. Produce the bride, or I start dismantling this gingerbread house brick by brick."

He stopped three steps below Brooke.

He looked up at her.

For the first time, his bored expression flickered. He tilted his head, studying her like a biological specimen that had suddenly grown teeth.

"You're not Brittny," he said.

"Observant," Brooke replied. Her voice didn't shake.

Elliot climbed the last three steps. He invaded her personal space, looming over her. He smelled of expensive scotch, gunpowder, and danger.

The family gasped. Lord Graves took a step forward, then stopped when a laser sight appeared on his chest.

Elliot leaned in close, his face inches from Brooke's.

"You're the sister," he murmured. "The one they hide in the attic. Frederick, right?"

He used her mother's name like a weapon. A test.

"Brooke," she corrected. "And I'm not hiding."

Elliot smirked. It transformed his face from handsome to devilish.

"Aren't you scared, Brooke Frederick?"

"Fear is inefficient," she said.

He stared at her for a long second. Then, lightning fast, his hand shot out.

He grabbed her chin.

It wasn't a caress. It was a grip. He turned her face left, then right, inspecting her.

Brooke didn't pull away. Instead, her eyes dropped to his hand.

She saw the ridge of calluses along his palm. The rough skin on his trigger finger. These weren't the hands of a trust fund playboy who spent his days signing checks. These were hands that broke things.

"Rough hands for a Prince," she whispered.

Elliot froze. His pupils dilated. He released her chin instantly, stepping back as if she had burned him.

He turned to the Grand Dame, his voice booming.

"You have ten minutes."

He sat down on the top step, his back to them, and checked his watch.

"Ten minutes to get her in a dress and in my car. Or I burn the inheritance."

He didn't specify which girl. He didn't care.

Brooke looked at the back of his head. She was playing a game. And for the first time in years, she felt a spark of interest.