Chapter Eleven
Perry
What the fuck did she just say? It’s none of my business?
If we’re really going through with this, I’m about to become her husband. Everything she does, everything that happens to her, is going to be my business. I have every right to know who did this to her.
“Was it one of your asshole brothers? Grant? Or maybe it was Finn.” Those dudes—specifically the middle one—were something else. Bunch of arrogant dicks, and when Finn tried playing the tough-guy game with me—Jesus. Good thing I’ve been in training my whole life for moments like this.
Winston would decimate them with just a look.
“No.” She shakes her head, her gaze dropping from mine. She can’t even look me in the eyes right now. Is she ashamed? What the fuck happened to her? She shouldn’t feel shame. Hell no. Some prick put his hands on her and fucking hurt her. “I just—I can’t tell you.”
“Charlotte.” Her startled gaze goes to mine and I see the fear swirling in her eyes, which makes me feel like a bigger asshole. Like one of her brothers. Swear to God if one of them hurt her…
What? What would I do? Why would I care?
I care because if this marriage actually happens, she’ll eventually become mine and I’m a Constantine. We take care of what’s ours.
And for some reason, she feels like mine. My responsibility. Seeing the bruises on her arm caused something unfamiliar to rise within me. Something I’ve never really felt before in my life.
Protectiveness. Possessiveness.
“What?” She visibly swallows, her voice shaky.
“Tell me later, okay?” I keep my voice soft so as not to scare her.
Which is really fucked up, if you ask me.
She nods, her gaze dropping from mine, her cheeks tinged pink. If I could, I’d pull her back into my arms—because fuck me, that kiss we just shared was hot—but she might freak out.
And I think I’ve already freaked her out enough.
Even though I reluctantly accepted her answer, I’m still mad. Anger suffuses every inch of my body, leaving me tense and ready to pounce as I glance around the glittering room full of mostly strangers who are here to celebrate me.
Us.
Someone who’s most likely in the room did this to her. I can guarantee it. And when I find out who it is?
They need to watch the fuck out.
I may not be thrilled to go through a fake wedding with this woman, but damned if I’m going to let someone abuse my fiancée. She may be a pain in the ass sometimes, but she’s my pain in the ass.
And no one can touch her.
Not a single soul.
“Just—give me a minute, okay?” she asks, her voice soft, her head still bent. Downright submissive.
“Sure,” I tell her, wishing I could give her comfort.
Knowing I’m not the one who’s capable of it. Not right now.
She remains quiet and so do I, giving her the chance to gather herself. I keep my gaze on her, unable to look away, drinking in her subtle beauty. The slope of her nose, the arch of her cheekbones, the slight jut of her chin that gives her a hint of fierceness. Another server walks by and she grabs a fresh champagne glass from his tray, bringing it to her mouth, her pink glossy lips resting on the rim before she takes a sip.
I wipe the corner of my mouth, bringing my finger away to stare at it.
Pink sparkly gloss.
Remnants of her on my lips.
I’m going to have to kiss her again here eventually. We have to make this look real. That’s what Winston told me. Mother too. They got me alone last night and gave me a speech about how important it is that we look like an actual couple who are in love. Our relationship has to appear as real as possible.
But for who?
That’s the million fucking dollar question.
Reaching out, I rest my hand on Charlotte’s back, purposely keeping my touch light. I might be doing this for appearance’s sake, but I also want to reassure her that I really do have her back.
She takes a subtle step forward, my hand having no choice but to fall and I press my lips together, irritated she won’t let me comfort her.
She won’t let me in.
“Let’s get this over with,” she finally mutters, setting her glass down next to my empty one. I could’ve consumed three more in quick succession, but I need to keep my wits about me.
If I get too drunk, I might end up doing or saying something stupid.
Can’t risk it.
We move about the room once more, heading deeper into the opulent townhouse where the Lancasters live. We come from wealth, but not like this. They come from old money and it shows. From the fine art that hangs on their walls that looks like something straight out of a museum to the quality lines of the furniture that I know wasn’t manufactured but hand made by a renowned designer. Hell, the glasses they’re serving all the liquor in look straight out of some old English duke’s estate and are probably hundreds of years old.
Not that I’ve ever consumed alcohol out of a fancy glass at an old English duke’s estate, but if I ever did, this is how I’d imagine the glasses to look.
I spot my mother nearby, in deep conversation with a man about her age or even older who looks vaguely familiar.
“There’s my mother,” I tell Charlotte, and when she glances in her direction, her entire body goes stiff. “Who’s she with?”
“My father,” Charlotte says, her voice faint.
No wonder he looks familiar. His dickhead sons resemble him.
I shouldn’t call Crew a dickhead. He seemed all right. Can’t believe he recognized me. I haven’t raced in over a year, not after I almost wrecked and scared the shit out of myself one Saturday night. I’d been high as fuck and thinking I was untouchable.
Until that moment.
Haven’t raced since. That’s when I garaged the Chevelle. Yes, I still own a sportscar and like to go fast as I drive through the city, but I don’t have a death wish like I used to.
Not anymore.
We walk over to where my mother and her father are standing, and they don’t even notice our approach until we’re practically upon them, they’re still so involved in their conversation. Mother catches sight of us first, a small smile playing upon her lips when she sees us.
“Reggie, our children are here,” she says, her gaze going to Charlotte. “Don’t you look lovely tonight, Charlotte?”
“Thank you.” Charlotte smiles, a little yelp leaving her when my mother pulls my fiancée into her arms and gives her a tight hug. “You look nice too.”
My mother always looks nice. She’s an impeccable dresser with a great sense of style and all the money to pay for her designer clothes. I’d like to think I inherited my own sense of style from her.
I’m always on top of the trends.
“Oh, you’re too gracious, darling. You’re the star of the show tonight. That dress. You look like a sweet little cream puff.” Mother glances over at Reginald, who’s watching us, Charlotte in particular. “Have you met my son?”
This is fucking crazy, that I haven’t even met this man yet, and I’m about to marry his only daughter. “A pleasure to meet you, sir,” I say to him, offering my hand.
Reginald Lancaster shakes it, his icy blue gaze cold. Assessing. “Finally, we meet, Perry. Sorry I couldn’t attend the family dinner. I was out of the country.”