Summer What’s wrong with him? Sinclair pauses to speak to my father, his gaze never wavering from me. His nostrils flare; his eyebrows knit. Those indigo eyes blaze as if he’s got murder on his mind. Why the hell is he so angry? Was it something I did? He fists his fingers at his sides; the skin stretches white at his knuckles. Huh? There’s a fierceness to the set of his features that hasn’t been there before. "Jealousy suits him, don’t you think?" His friend st eps in front, cutting off Sinclair from my line of sight. That is, if you could call this six-foot six-inch giant of a man—with the elegant gait and the £10,000 pound suits to rival—a friend. He holds out his hand. "I’m Saint." "No, you’re mistaken." I tilt my head back, all the way back, to peer into his eyes. What is it with these guys? Did they put something in their water growing up, that all of them seem larger than life? "Trust me when I say this. I’ve known Sin for a long time, and I’ve never seen him so riled up about a woman before." "Maybe it has something to do with—" I hesitate. How much is this guy aware of Sinclair’s agenda, huh? "Revenge?" His lips quirk, "Your father?" I nod. "That’s primary on all our minds right now. Why do you think all of us—well most of us—are here today?" "Not for the wedding—" I mumble. "—As much as to pin your father into a corner and make him, and the men he worked for, pay." He holds out his arm and I take it. He leads me to the side. I glance behind to see that the rest of the men have closed in on where Sinclair and Adam are speaking. "What did my father do to make all of you so hellbent on revenge?" I chew on my lower lip. Saint stiffens, "How much has Sinclair told you about what happened to us?" "Nothing." I huff out a breath. Why would he? He doesn’t have to. He doesn’t owe me anything, exc ept I am now his lawfully wedded wife. No, not even that. "He didn’t have to, right? After all he—" "—Coerced you into this wedding, huh?" I shoot him a sideways glance, "You don’t think I would have done this willingly, do you?" "Well, he has a way with women." "Not this one." I pull away from him and he holds on. "It’s in your interest to play along." "Huh?" "You want something out of this entire arrangement.”
"I’m already getting—" "Other than a monetary pay off." "Are all of you as egotistical as him?" "The jury is out on that. We each have our strengths." He looks up, and I follow his line of sight to the woman standing on her own, staring into the fir eplace. "And weaknesses, apparently," I mutter under my breath. He shoots me a quick glance. "How well do you know Victoria?" So, he doesn’t want to refer to her as my st epmother, huh? "First time I’ve met her." "Ask her to meet me before she leaves for the States." "Why?" "I have a proposition for her.” "Why would she be interested?" He rakes her figure from head to toe, "Trust me, women like her always are." I stiffen. I owe nothing to Victoria, but she... is family... sort of. It isn’t that I want to look out for her, or my dad... A little bit maybe. Besides, what is Saint's motivation here? I frown. "We've only just met." "So?" He pats my hand. "You help me, and I promise, I’ll help you find a way to get even with Sterling there." "I thought you were friends." "Of the competitive kind.’ "Why do you want to meet her?" "My intentions, I promise you, are..." He hesitates. "I want to get to know her better." "You want to get in her pants." He chuckles. "That too. I won’t hurt her." He peruses my features. "Not unless she wants me to." Does he have the same proclivities that Sinclair has hinted at? "Did whatever happened to all of you... result in the same warped tastes tainting each of you?" He frowns, then drops my hand, "You’ll have to ask Sterling that.’ "I thought you were going to help me with him?" "What do you want to know?" "What’s his weakness?" His lip curls; he surveys me from toe to head. "No, you’re wrong." "Yes." "I don’t understand.’ "You, Summer West, have singularly ruffled him. You’ve gotten under his skin to an extent you don’t realize."
"What do you mean?" "This marriage, it wasn’t part of the plan." "Oh." "We tried to dissuade him." "We?" "The Seven." He makes a circular motion with his fingers. Ah! I scan the faces of the men in the room. "Jace isn’t one of us," he adds. "The Seventh, Baron, is not here currently." Saint slides his hand into his pocket, every inch the picture of a self-assured, domineering, upper-class twat. "Sinclair feels something for you. He’s so far gone in his emotions that he doesn’t realize how much he is vested in this sham." My heart begins to thud. "What are you trying to say?" I can guess, but I want him to tell me. Want to hear it in his own words. "You, my dear, are his weakness." A hand descends on his shoulder. I glance past Saint to find Sinclair glaring at me. "Get away from her." "Just a conversation, old chap." "Anything you want to say to her, goes through me." "Hold on a second." I huff, "I am still here." Saint st eps away, "Whatever you say." He turns to me, "Ask her, will you?" Sinclair plants his body between us, "Here, asshole,” he indicates his face, “you direct your questions here." Saint’s eyebrows fly up. "Possessive much?" "Bugger off." "You can take the man out of the gutter, but not the upbringing that clings to every part of your core, eh?" Every muscle in Sinclair’s body goes solid. His shoulders seem to bulge, stretching the already tight fit of his shirt. He withdraws his arm and I grab it. "Don’t." The tension radiates off of him, under his skin. The warmth of his body sinks into my fingertips, travels straight to its logical destination. My core. I dig my fingertips into his forearm. He’s so big that I have to use both of my hands to circle the circumference of his muscle. "Please." He leans forward on the balls of his feet; his jaw tics. "I am going to kill you for touching her." I stare. What's gotten into him? Saint glowers, "Getting tired of your empty threats, Sterling." Oh, for heaven’s sake! I shove my body between the two of them. Sinclair glares at Saint. I stand on my tiptoes and grab Sin's collar.
"What the—?" He glances down. I tug him toward me, rise up on my tiptoes and kiss him. His lips are softer than I remembered them to be. Which must be my imagination because there’s nothing soft about this man. I nibble on his lower lip, and his entire body goes solid. He stays there, unmoving. I’m trying to distract him from getting into a fight? Why? Why does it matter to me, that I don’t want him to embarrass himself in front of his friends? They know him better than I do, for much longer than I have. They are probably used to him creating a scene. But instinct had taken over, and a surge of possessiveness, maybe. My heart stutters. For that second, I’d felt a kernel of ownership over him, concern about his r eputation. Or a thrill at the fact that he’d been jealous because another man had touched me? Either way, I had been stupid to act on impulse. I disentangle my arms and st ep back. "Sorry." I mumble. "That was not warranted." I angle my body with the intent of leaving. The next second his arms loop around my waist. I squeak. He hauls me up and to him. His mouth crashes down on mine. I gasp aloud and the sound is lost, consumed by him. His tongue thrusts between my open lips, tangles with mine. The dark taste of him fills my palate. The heat of his body slams into me, surrounds me and ties me to him. His palm cups my cheek, cradling my head, tilts my face up, de epening the kiss further. He yanks me close, until my breasts are flattened against the unforgiving wall of his chest. My nipples bead and my sex clenches. Every pore in my body seems to open with anticipation, and still, he doesn’t stop. His teeth clash with mine, his tongue laps at mine, the scent of him fills my senses. His hard thighs cradle my hips and the turgid length of his cock jumps against my core. I swallow, try to pull away, but his large fingers wrap around my neck. I stutter. He holds me in place, every millimeter of my body pressed against his, branding me, owning me, a clear signal that I am his. I won’t be able to es cape him. Will not be able to leave this relationship unhurt. He’s possessed my soul since the second he’d laid eyes on me, had claimed my body from the moment he’d met me. I’d been so wrong to think that I could find my way out of this, because I can’t. I am caught, going to burn up in the flames that are Sinclair Sterling, for he gives no quarter. Cares for no one. Looks out for no one, exc ept himself... and perhaps, the Seven? A trembling swe eps up my body. My hands shake and my knees knock together. The utter rightness of my thoughts sinks into my bones. My heart begins to thud. He is every bit the untamable alpha male that his r eputation paints him to be. Is that why I am so drawn to him, unable to pull away from him, as he ravages my mouth, brands me with his touch? Is that why I can’t stop the moan that bleeds from my mouth? He bites down on my lower lip. I gasp. Goosebumps dot my skin. He tears his mouth from mine, and I sway. "Look at me." I crack open my eyelids, meet that indigo gaze. The silver flecks in them flare. "You’re mine, Bird." I swallow. Can’t look away. Can’t refute the heated possessiveness in his eyes. The sound of clapping reaches me. I wince. My shoulders shake. He wraps his arm around me, turns me around and tucks me into his side. My hands and feet are so numb. A cold sensation slides down my back, and I shiver.
He tugs me closer, searing my side with the heat of his intention. My throat goes dry. He wants me, that much is clear. That doesn’t change anything. Yet something has shifted in the last few seconds. The balance has tilted further in his favor, if that is possible. I want him, want to feel his touch on my skin. Yet everything inside of me wants to turn him away. My head spins. The blonde man from behind the bar, st eps around the barrier. Comes toward us with two glasses of Champagne. "A toast." Sinclair takes the two glasses and hands me one. The voices in the room quieten. A beat, another. He releases me, only to st ep around to face me. I stare at the strong cords of his throat. If I leaned in, I could press my nose to the space between them, inhale that dark edgy scent of his. I shiver. "The moment I saw you, I knew you were the one, Summer." A hush descends on the room. I swallow hard, and in the silence, hear the blood pound in my ears. "Then you walked into that elevator and I was sure." He pauses, unbuttons his jacket. His white shirt clings to the hard planes of his chest, the buttons opened enough to reveal a few strands of black hair. Heat pools between my legs and I squeeze my thighs together. "The third time I saw you, you were talking to yourself." What? I tilt my chin up and—mistake, dammit—his gaze locks with mine. My throat closes and my pulse begins to race. His eyes gleam with sincerity; a warmth that draws me in and insists that he’s telling the truth. Is he? The skin around his eyes creases. "That’s when I fell in love with you." I blink. This man... he’s such a consummate liar. If anyone could reflect their heart in their eyes, then it would be him, in this instant. "I knew then, I had to make you mine. To tie you to me irrevocably, so you could never leave me." A sigh sounds from behind me. A drawn breath. Can no one here see through his pretense? He moves closer and the chemistry between us ratchets up. His broad shoulders shut out the sight of everyone else. He could be talking only to me, revealing his true self. I watch entranced, a part of me applauding at the show he’s putting on. "For, you complete me." He did not just say that. The most overrated movie dialogue of all time; and he’s using it at this precise moment. If he’d wanted to cut right through my heart, he couldn’t have done it better. Oh, he’s smart, this man. He knows me too well. Knows how to throttle every last one of my silly desires. Someone claps, and another, and a third joins in. Without anyone in the room realizing what he’s done. "I am the luckiest man alive to be able to call you my wife."
I turn away, tears pricking my eyes. My throat closes. Pressure builds at my temples. "Summer Sterling." The complete confidence in his tone lashes me about my shoulders. I strain against the pull he exerts on me, force myself to take another st ep forward. And another. "Can I call you by my name?" I pause. My feet refuse to move. Damn this man. How can he throw me down one moment, then lift me up high above the clouds, make me reach for the sun the next? Doesn’t he realize how cruel it is when he does that? It will leave me floundering in the gutter, mired in the throes of the passion that laces his words; the one that compels me to turn around and swallow. "Never."