Vicious Prince: An Arranged Marriage Romance (Royal Elite Book 5)
Vicious Prince: Chapter 4

“We can turn around and leave this instant, Teal.” Dad clutches me by the elbow, causing me to stop in front of the double golden doors of the Astor mansion.

Elsa, Knox, and Agnus stop, too. My brother takes the chance to smooth his denim jacket and hair. Elsa gives me a pleading look, silently begging me to think about this.

Agnus, Dad’s right-hand man, is forty-three and so well-built he gives the younger generation a run for their money, and now he is watching me with a neutral expression. Knox and I lived with him for many years, and I know that neutrality means he cares — to an extent. He just doesn’t show it.

Like me.

Perhaps that’s why I look up at him, expecting something, anything to come out of his mouth.

He says nothing.

It’s Dad who grips me gently by the elbow and stands in front of me. Dad is also broad and well-built, not like Agnus, but Dad has an aristocratic face. He’s warm but hard. Noble but old-fashioned in a way.

His chestnut hair is styled like a proper gentleman, and his suit, like Agnus’, is made to impress. Actually, everyone’s clothes are. Even my daft brother took the time to wear his best when he’d usually throw on a Metallica T-shirt like it’s the only thing available.

Elsa is wearing a soft blue dress that compliments her eye colour. Dad and Agnus are in dark suits they usually reserve for business — because that’s what this is about: business.

I’ve chosen a black tulle skirt that stops at my knees, fishnet stocking, and boots. I also have a white T-shirt — with no sayings on the front — and a black denim jacket. My hair is straight, hitting just under my chin as usual. The only thing I gave up is the black makeup.

I think you missed the memo about makeup. It’s supposed to make you prettier, not uglier.

No, it’s not because of his words. Ronan Astor doesn’t affect my decisions and never will. Not even if I wear his engagement ring.

The reason I went with normal eyeliner, a touch of mascara, and baby pink lipstick is simple: to impress.

Because once today ends, my plan will come to fruition.

I smile at Dad, and it’s a real one, a thankful one. When Knox and I faced death, he saved us, had us call him Dad, and insisted we continue to even after his nine-year coma.

He’s the only dad I’ve ever had, and I’ve never shown him my thanks. This is my chance to do it properly.

“I want to do this, Dad. I don’t mind.”

“Teal…” Elsa pleads.

“Shall we?” I motion at the door.

Before any of us can do anything, the double doors swing open like in some fairy tale, and there stands a tall man wearing a butler’s suit complete with white gloves and a dispassionate smile. “Welcome to the Astor Estate.”

Only this isn’t a fairy tale — or perhaps it is, with a twist.

In the end, the hero won’t win. The villain will topple everyone’s lives over.

What everyone doesn’t know is, the villain wasn’t always a villain. Once upon a time, they were a victim.

“We always come here for Ronan’s parties,” Knox whispers to Elsa and me. “What’s with the formality?”

“I thought you don’t go to parties?” Dad gives him side-eye.

Knox grins. “I’m still your favourite son, Dad. Admit it.”

My father shakes his head with slight exasperation as the butler leads us through a large hallway filled with medieval portraits. Usually, for the parties held here, there would be guards near all these so none of RES’s students ruin them.

We’re led to a large dining table. This one is always closed and off limits for partygoers. That’s done for a reason.

The room is like a scene from a period film. Golden chandeliers hang from above, and the chairs surrounding the huge table fit for an army are high and meant to swallow tiny people like me.

At the head of table stands the lord of the estate. Earl Edric Astor, member of the House of Lords, a ruthless investor, a faithful husband.

And a fucked-up human being.

He smiles at us, reaching out his hand so his wife can rise from her chair and stand on his right.

She’s elegant and pale, almost like one of those Victorian era maids who were forced to marry an influential lord.

Something in my chest stings upon seeing her, her radiant smile and wasted beauty. What has she done to have to be married to a monster?

Ronan stands at his father’s left, grinning like an idiot. I don’t meet his or his father’s gazes. If I do, I might start having those signs that could trigger my episodes.

“Welcome, Ethan.” Edric motions at the seat. “Please. I’m honoured to have you amongst us.”

Dad, Agnus, and Edric exchange pleasantries. His wife, Charlotte, hugs Knox then Elsa. When it’s my turn, I force myself to remain still in preparation for the physical attack — and I kind of fail. Instead of hugging me, she eyes me up and down, but with no maliciousness. It’s more like…pure interest.

I fidget then stop myself when I realise I’m doing it. Damn. Did I just feel nervous or something? I don’t do nervous — not usually, at least.

Her lips pull up in the warmest smile I’ve ever seen on a human being. It rearranges her features, making her appear younger and softer. When she speaks, there’s a distinguishable French accent. “I love your sense of fashion.”

Usually, when people say that, it’s with a venomous undertone. Not Charlotte.

She pulls me close and wraps her arms around me. “I’m so happy to meet you.”

I pat her back awkwardly, almost mechanically, and just then, my eyes meet Ronan’s dark ones. His grin wavers for a second as he watches me and my hand on his mother’s back.

Then his attention slides to my face. If eyes had a language, his would be saying he wants to trap me and smear my lipstick in a dark library corner about now.

I shake my head internally, forcing that image to go up in smoke. It’s all I’ve been thinking about since yesterday. There’s a slight chance Ronan will ruin my plan. Contrary to my original assessment, he’s not a gigolo. He’s only using the gigolo image for other purposes, and since I don’t know what those are, I can’t form a counterstrike this soon.

The way he touched me and how his usual shallowness slipped means he might have more depth.

But that doesn’t mean I’ll give up on the plan. I’ve finally gotten here, and no rich spoilt boy will take away my justice.

The more he watches me, the harder I glare back.

If he thinks I’ll be the one to break eye contact first, he must not know who he’s dealing with.

His girls and shags don’t even compare to me. He’s lived in one world, and I’m an entirely different one altogether.

Charlotte breaks away, shutting down the glaring competition. We all take our seats, and as I settle beside Dad, my gaze strays to the head of the table.

Edric motions at one of the staff, and like magic, dishes appear in front of us. They contain many colours with different compelling smells. Knox dives into the food and loses the connection with his immediate surroundings.

Dad and Agnus are chatting about business and stocks. Ronan whispers something to Knox — probably about the ‘usual’ parties — and they both laugh under their breaths.

Elsa keeps sending me pleading signals over the table even as she speaks to Charlotte.

Me? There’s this black smoke that keeps swirling around my head and a shadow perching on my shoulder.

I can’t fight it off as I watch him, hear him, his voice with that distinguishable tenor. It’s changed a little, but it has been more than a decade, after all.

He’s still the same: confident, arrogant, and a wolf in a sheep’s clothing.

Back then, I could do nothing about it.

Now, I’ll slaughter his legacy, crush his name, and make him bleed.

My phone vibrates in my jacket and I pull it out under the table, thinking it’s a notification from one of the newsletters I’m signed up for, or perhaps the club. My heart flutters at the thought. It’s a long shot, but what if they accept me? What if they —

My shoulders drop when I see the screen.

It’s a text from Ronan.

My attention slides to him. He’s still joking and playing with Knox across the table; when the hell did he have time to text?

Also, I have no clue how he got my number, though this isn’t the first time he’s texted me. He sent me one last night, too.

Today’s text says:

Ronan: Do as agreed.

I scroll up to last night’s texts.

Ronan: My father will ask if you agree to this engagement, and you’ll apologise and say you don’t. If you feel like it, some tears are encouraged, but it’s not mandatory.

Teal: Why would I do that?

Ronan: Because if you don’t, I’ll figure out your secret and crush you with it until you wish you’d never gotten in my way. Mmmkay?

Teal: What makes you think I have a secret?

Ronan: We all do, ma belle. Some are just more destructive than others.

I didn’t reply to his last message, and I don’t plan to reply to this one.

Sure, secrets are scary, but there’s no way in hell he’ll be able to figure out mine. Even Knox doesn’t know all about it, and that says something since we’ve shared everything since our mother’s womb.

As soon as I tuck my phone in my jacket, Edric’s cool, posh voice fills the dining room. “As you’re all aware, we’re here to start a relationship between our families. I’m honoured to have ties to you, Ethan.”

Dad tips his head. “So am I, Edric.”

The latter smiles, and I tighten my hold on the napkin in front of me. “Before that, we have to get the youngsters’ approval — modern times and everything. Ronan, do you agree to be engaged to Teal?”

His son’s lips curve in an almost manic smile. “Of course. It’d be my honour.”

His honour?

The fucking liar.

Why does he get to fake his feelings so perfectly like that? Why can’t I do that?

“Teal?” Edric asks and it takes everything in me not to rise out of my seat and lunge at him with a fork — or better yet, a knife.

My gaze focuses back on Ronan, who’s watching me with that same smile.

“Absolutely.” I mimic his smile. “It’s an honour.”

Congratulations scatter all around us, but the one I focus on isn’t Agnus as I initially thought I would. No — it’s the boy with a previously disgusting symmetrical face.

Previously because I can’t conjure the disgust anymore, no matter how much I try to.

His smile is still in place, but his entire demeanour sharpens. His eyes darken, his shoulders strain, and his hold on the spoon tightens.

Those are all small, almost imperceptible changes, but the signs are there, and they point to one thing.

The start of a war.

Wars are Death’s playground. It’s where he harvests souls and leaves the remaining ones desolate.

You’re always a victim of war, whether by losing a loved one or your property or both.

And right now, Ronan appears ready to make me lose everything.

Not that I’m scared of him. I’m not. Because what he doesn’t know is that I’m also ready to make him lose everything.

His hand disappears under the table, and soon after, my phone vibrates in my pocket.

I hold it in my lap and read the text.

Ronan: You made your hell, and now I’ll ruin you.

Not as much as I’ll ruin you.

I meet his glare with one of my own as I type.

Teal: Bring it.