Monster: A Dark Arranged Marriage Romance

by Vanessa Waltz

  I’m grateful my fiancé takes care of me.

  He’d spared no expense to make me his possession. My engagement ring was a gaudy diamond solitaire on a platinum setting. I’d studied it with my jeweler’s loupe and appraised it at ninety thousand dollars. I hated the damned thing. It looked ridiculous on my petite hand, but Tony hadn’t asked for feedback. He hadn’t even proposed. His bodyguard had awkwardly shoved the velvet box in my direction.

  Tony seemed to be all about status, like all wealthy egomaniacs. The ring, the Vera Wang dress, and the spa treatments belonged to someone else, a trophy wife, not me. I still clipped coupons. I lived in a mobile home and probably couldn’t name half the designers in his closet.

  Why the hell did he want me?

  Christian’s pocket buzzed. He answered his phone, murmuring in Italian. He always switched to the language when Tony called. He wheeled toward the door, closing his cell.

  I clenched my jaw tighter.

  The door opened to Tony’s powerful, Viking-like frame. His broad shoulders strained his suit. Normally, his hair was as untamed as the rest of him, but for the wedding he’d slicked it back. Salt and pepper marked his ebony mane. Everything about him was bold, the deep tan, the boyish lips built for sin. The media had dubbed him Mob Prince for a reason.

  Tall, dark, and handsome didn’t begin to describe his level of gorgeous.

  Heat stole into my face as my gaze raked over his devastating appeal. I drank in the lazy seduction of his big eyes, the cutting jawline. He was in his late thirties, and it showed in how he carried himself. He stood as though steel made his spine. A short mustache and beard clung to his upper lip and jaw. Dark wisps peeked from the V neck of his shirt.

  Hot. Very masculine.

  It was like he’d just left a vacation in the Amazon. I’d lived in Boston my whole life, and I’d never seen anyone like Tony.

  “Looking good, T.” Christian slapped his back, exploding with enthusiasm. “Ready to get married?”

  A cloud settled over Tony’s features. “I need a moment alone with my bride.”

  “Of course, buddy.”

  Tony glowered at Christian until the door swung behind him. Then his lightning rod stare landed on me.

  I fisted my clutch.

  It was very strange. He glared at me as though I’d condemned him to hell. As he crossed the room, my muscles tensed.

  He held out his hand.

  I took it, and a jolt passed from his skin to mine.

  My body stiffened as he boldly assessed me, his gaze traveling down my face, neck, and breasts.

  “I’m Tony Costa, and you belong to me now.” He beckoned me with a wave—a gesture for servants, not his fiancée. “Let’s see the rest of you.”

  I stayed put. “Tony, I don’t want to be your wife.”

  “You pick an odd time to complain.”

  “I assumed you’d back out.” I lifted my chin, whispering with desperate firmness. “I’ve tried to meet you for days. You weren’t at the negotiation meetings. You didn’t come to the engagement supper.”

  “I’m not a fan of chaperoned visits. My number is on your phone.”

  “I only got it recently.”

  His flat gaze held me still. “And?”

  “Why the fuck do you want this?”

  “I don’t,” he said, stunning me. “I rank marrying into your family slightly higher than blowing out my brains, which is the only reason I’m here.”

  My chest tightened. “You’re not my first choice either.”

  “No doubt, but nothing you say will stop this wedding.” His deep-timbred voice rose somewhat. “Are we clear?”

  “Not one bit.”

  My mind reeled. If he didn’t want to marry me, why were we doing this?

  He squinted at me. “You are of age, right?”

  I frowned. “I’m twenty-two.”

  Relief smoothed his brows.

  Weird.

  He acted like he loathed me and had no idea of my age. I’d spent hours researching him. I’d read op-eds and articles. I’d scoured the comment sections for insight.

  Tony literally didn’t know me.

  “Didn’t you ask questions about me?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t care about the details, considering you were all the same. They lined up photos of women and told me to pick. Yours happened to be the one that made my dick hard.”

  I stared at him, tongue-tied and frozen.

  Tony brushed lint off his jacket. “Were you expecting something romantic?”

  My face heated at his mocking drawl. “I had my blood drawn for fertility tests.”

  “So?”

  A flicker of adrenaline surged through me. “You could’ve asked me. I would’ve told you to go with someone else.”

  His mouth twisted into a cruel slant. “Should I have picked from the club sluts with more STDs between them than Paris Hilton? I chose you, the virgin, knowing at least I wouldn’t get the clap.”

  This man couldn’t be serious.

  “You’re lucky you got a choice,” I snarled, abandoning all attempts at civility. “I’m stuck with Public Enemy Number One for my old man.”

  “Don’t call me that,” he growled, the loudness piercing my ears. “I’m not one of you, thank God. Once you have my name, you’ll drop the biker crap. I won’t have it in my house or anywhere around me.”

  That settled it.

  I’d stab my husband before the night ended.

  “I’ll wear ripped jeans and leather to all your family barbecues. And guess what’s going on the wall? A giant Harley-Davidson poster.”

  Tony’s dark eyes sparkled with the love of a challenge. “I’ll gag you with your panties. Force you to taste your pussy for hours. I’ll drag you over my lap and do things. Maybe in front of an audience.”

  An unwelcome flush burned my cheeks.

  He lightly fingered my chin, and the air vanished from my lungs. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

  No, I don’t.

  My heart hammered.

  “And you don’t know it yet, but you chose the wrong girl.”

  Two

  Evie

  I’m grateful so many people support our marriage.

  Mom warned me.

  Dating in the MC was not for romantics who planned their wedding in the first two weeks of a new relationship. She said I couldn’t handle the club girls, the cheating, and the heartbreak. Now I’d never know if she was right.

  Because Dad was forcing me to marry him.

  Tony stood at the altar, wearing an expression more appropriate for being stuck at the DMV, not celebrating his marriage. Nobody wanted to be here, least of all my fiancé. He glowered like I was the bug crawling up his ass.

  Same to you, bastard.

  A tense silence enveloped us as the march’s last notes faded, the droning of the priest not enough to slice the tension. My gaze wandered to my leather-clad father in the front row, a grim set to his jaw. Behind him, rows of people shifted in their seats. Sympathy marked the women’s faces, but the men mirrored Tony’s put-upon boredom.

  My spirits sank even lower.

  I curled my hands into fists and shut them out. A woman’s wild sobbing broke the quiet, and I gaped at Tony’s side. His mother cried into a tissue.

  I bristled.

  Why was she crying? I was the wronged party in this situation. Her murdering son would be my husband, and he’d made it clear that he planned to use me like a blow-up doll.

  Tony shot me a twisted smile full of lethal calm. Before long, his “I do” echoed as though he stood in a tomb. Then the priest turned toward me.

  “And do you, Evie, take Anthony to be your husband?”

  Grief tore at my heart, but my father’s threats rang in my ears. I swallowed the ache in my throat.

  “I do.”

  Tony’s surly best man handed him the rings. My family’s oldest enemy took my hand in his big, calloused one. Shock slammed into my ribs
as he slid another ring I hated onto my finger. His resentment drilled holes into my skull.

  “I now pronounce you man and wife,” said the distant voice of the priest. “You may kiss the bride.”

  Our vulnerable gazes clashed.

  Hatred blazed in those tawny brown pools. They had a burning, faraway look, like he couldn’t bear to share the same space. His arm banded my waist, pulling me roughly to him. He cradled my head. We stared at each other as though across an unfathomable distance.

  Married, but still strangers.

  I anchored my hands on his shoulders, my stomach twisting as our bodies pressed close. I tipped my head up to kiss my husband, stowing my rage for later. Then his lips caught mine, and my senses leaped to life. His kiss was punishing and angry, sending spirals of heat through me. His stubble raked my skin. He was a flame eating the oxygen in the air, devouring my sustenance.

  Scattered applause cleaved through my brain.

  Tony pulled away, stone-faced.

  I swayed, fingers digging into his jacket. At the base of my throat, my pulse beat and swelled. My lips tingled.

  I wanted more. Tony was zoned out—and bored.

  A fierce sting bit my cheeks.

  That was it.

  I officially belonged to a monster.

  Dad had spent a lifetime warning me against men like Tony. Despite that, he’d permitted Tony to make my life hell forever. His only daughter, fed to Tony like a sacrificial lamb.

  The betrayal sawed into my chest.

  After an hour of photos, we drove to our reception at a waterfront museum. A giant wall of glass overlooked the harbor, winking with a sea of yellow lights as the dark water reflected a cloudless sky. Seafood rested on ice, but I’d yet to go anywhere near the buffet. I had a mild allergy to shellfish, but nobody thought to ask for my preferences. His mother had planned everything.

  Tony sat at our sweetheart table, brooding. He’d skipped the five-course dinner, glowering when guests approached us.

  I grabbed a flute of champagne and offered it to him, but Tony waved off my peace offering.

  “I don’t drink.”

  “Not even at your wedding?”

  He shot me a black look but didn’t elaborate. Then his gaze dropped to his ring.

  I glared at him. “Strong and silent, huh? Are you that way because you’re too proud? Or are you not bright enough to string together words that aren’t insults?”

  “I think we’ve had enough of each other.”

  “Well, I have a lot to discuss, even if you’d rather sit there and pout.”

  “This is the most backwards day in my fucked up life. I have the right to be pissed off.” His eyes echoed the smolder in his voice. “So do you. You’re paying for sins that aren’t yours. I enjoy tormenting my enemies, but this is cruel, even by my standards. And believe me, honey, I’ve seen some shit.”

  I didn’t doubt him.

  I’d heard all kinds of rumors, but separating fact from fiction required research. Since my father refused to tell me anything at all, what I’d read painted a billionaire playboy’s fall from grace and his comeback as a “human rights” activist. Hard to accept that candy-coated spin when it was rumored he gave out cash for dead bikers.

  I refilled the champagne and drank, hoping to dissolve the knot in my throat. I could deal with being his wife, but icy fingers seeped into my flesh at what was expected of me. The prenup had a list of requirements:

  Sex once a week, bare minimum.

  We were to start a family. If I didn’t conceive in a year, Tony could file for divorce, and I would get nothing. Since my fertility was already established, Tony would also be penalized if he failed to make an heir. Most of his estate would be signed over to his cousin, including property, stocks, and overseas bank accounts. A pregnancy within six months would grant me a bonus.

  Any violation of the prenup would result in our marriage’s immediate termination, and my assets would be split down the middle.

  My business would never recover. Not to mention, I’d have to repay every cent toward it. I could be in debt to Costa forever, but he could lose half his net worth and still be a rich bastard.

  “Dream a Little Dream” by Pink Martini pulsed from speakers, the jaunty romantic tune stabbing my brain like a pitchfork.

  “I guess we should dance.” Tony sounded like he’d rather drown, but he grabbed my arm and pulled me upright. His touch splayed over my exposed back, flooding my skin with heat.

  “I’m not a good dancer. I have absolutely no rhythm.” I took his shoulder, my skin flushing. “You’ll be embarrassed when I stumble over your shoes.”

  Tony’s jaw clenched, but he nodded. Then he cradled me in a tight embrace, his chin hooking my shoulder. His warmth enveloped me in a musky vanilla scent. His arms banded my waist, pinning me to a wall of muscle. A current ran through me as we slowly revolved on the spot. It would’ve been sweet if not for the poison falling from his lips.

  “They would give me an uncoordinated girl.”

  I dug into him. “I have many talents. Dancing just isn’t one of them.”

  “Like?”

  “Jewelry design.”

  “Jewelry design. Plastic beads, that sort of thing?” His voice boomed through my stomach. “Do you have an Etsy? Do you go to makeup parties to sell your handmade bracelets? How adorable.”

  I rolled my eyes at his stupid assumptions and pictured his reaction when I moved in with a fully stocked jeweler’s studio, which included a blowtorch.

  “And what have you done with your life, except spend Daddy’s money?”

  He leaned in, his whisper brushing my ear. “Lately, I’m all about activism. Cleaning up the city.”

  Killing bikers. Right.

  “You should take a hard look at yourself.”

  “I know what I am.”

  A monster.

  “I don’t have the luxury of waging crusades.” That was putting it lightly. “I have bills. Endless bills.”

  “Which I’m inheriting, no doubt.”

  “You bet your conceited ass.” I hadn’t planned on milking him, but why not? “I have bigger dreams than being your wife.”

  Something that resembled a smile touched his brutally handsome face. “You could open your legs for me regularly. Might net you a quarter of a million dollars, if you’re lucky.”

  “Not sure I’d call carrying your baby luck.”

  “If not for me, where would you be?” His brows narrowed. “Living a mediocre life with one of them, popping out three kids, only to be stuck alone when he gets jailed for drug trafficking.”

  A furnace blazed up my neck, claiming my ears. “At least I wouldn’t be married to a psychopath. And I’d be able to work in peace.”

  “Well, that won’t be necessary anymore.”

  “I am not quitting,” I ground out. “It’s not just my passion. It pays the bills.”

  “You need me to pay them, so how successful can you be?”

  The barbed insult sank deep, striking behind my ribs. I inhaled sharply, fighting to breathe around the wound he’d caused.

  I ripped away.

  I needed a moment before I shattered the champagne glass fountain or threw him over the balcony. Unbearable heat flushed my arms. I crossed the glitzy reception hall to the wall of bearded men wearing leather cuts. A handsome prospect with chestnut brown hair waved.

  Ghost.

  A flash of loneliness stabbed my heart. I headed toward him, but a hand on my wrist stopped me. Glowering, I faced my husband.

  “What?”

  Tony’s grip slid down my arm and tightened.

  “My wife is not associated with bikers. Especially with the boy that’s been eye-fucking you all night.” An ugly suspicion darkened his voice. “Yes, I notice everything that concerns me or mine.”

  This was a bridge too far.

  “I’m part of that world. You can’t pry it out of me!”

  “I can and will.”

  I w
renched hard, but his hold was iron. “Let me go.”

  “I will not have him around you, Evie.” His tawny eyes blazed, daring me to challenge him. “I don’t hurt anyone without reason, but if I find out you’re still friends, I’ll send you his hands in a box. Do yourself a favor and behave.”

  The threat plunged me into ice.

  “You’re every bit as horrible as they say. You’re a sick bastard.”

  Three

  Evie

  I’m grateful that my husband doesn’t mince words.

  I’d married the monster.

  Soon I’d have to sleep with him.

  It was a splinter in my mind, driving me mad.

  Until now, the activity at the reception had swept it from my head. There’d been enough to occupy me with the forced wedding, the endless receiving line, and my husband’s strange hostility. Getting in the mood would be impossible, even if he hadn’t threatened to dismember someone.

  Tony was certifiable, more jaded than a former convict. He stood on the harbor, his sharp silhouette illuminated by yellow lights. Apparently, he preferred standing outside in the miserable weather than talking to me.

  What the hell was wrong with him?

  And didn’t he eat?

  My vision tunneled as I finished my Aperol spritz, a cocktail I’d never tried before. There was so much I hadn’t experienced because I’d grown up in a clubhouse, and I loved the way the orange syrup cradled the bottom of the glass, the citrus tang, how the sparkling wine teased my tongue before sweetness rolled in. The drink went down easy, so I’d had four.

  A blurry outline swam into focus.

  I ignored the bold frame. My mouth was papery, dry and dusty. I gulped the melted ice. The heavy presence lingered, heating the space between us like smoking coal.

  What did he want?