Twisted (Never After Series)

This office is small and cramped for someone who’s been a judge the past twenty years, with its blank white walls that have yellowed over time, offset by the dark wood furniture that Anthony McFarlane, the person I’m here to see, has spent a pretty penny trying to make more prestigious than it is.

Working as a municipal judge has its limits on grandeur, I suppose.

Right now, the size of the small room works in my favor, allowing me to see every single twitch of his face as he bumbles out worthless excuse after excuse for why he can’t give me what I’m asking for.

“You don’t understand,” he implores, his small, framed glasses slipping over the large hump in the middle of his nose. “There’s a mandatory twenty-four waiting period from the time of filing a  marriage license to when we can perform the ceremony. Besides, I can’t just draw one up and force her to sign. It doesn’t work like that.”

Nodding, I reach into the pocket of my suit, pulling out the small compact staff and pressing the button just beneath the top, the sound of it snapping to full size reverberating off the cramped walls. I flip the staff over the back of my hand, the smooth black metal feeling strong and sure as it lands in my palm. “I need for us to work together here, Your Honor.”

Beads of perspiration line the edges of his hair, his eyes flicking from the staff and back to my face. “Julian,” he implores. “There’s only so much I can do.”

I take a step forward, the edge of his desk digging into my thighs through my black dress pants. “Remember when you came to me five years ago?”

His forehead creases as his entire stature droops in his chair. “Julian…”

“Ah, ah, ah,” I tsk, reaching out until the end of my staff presses into his solar plexus. “Indulge me, old friend.”

Anthony’s mouth pinches shut.

“What was it again that had you rushing to me for help?” I tilt my head to the side.

He doesn’t reply.

“It was your wife,” I answer for him. “She was about to find those heinous videos of you bent over your desk like a stuck pig, getting pegged by your intern. How old was she again, nineteen?”

I cluck my tongue. “Naughty boy.”

His cheeks grow ruddy. “You promised to never— ”

“And I haven’t,” I interrupt. “I used my connections, my name, to help a friend in need. Wasn’t it that year I also gave you that stunning emerald necklace for your anniversary?” My smile drops, eyes narrowing as I dig the staff farther into his skin. “Or am I confusing that with the time you asked for those two- carat stud earrings for your mistress?”

He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Doesn’t matter, I guess. You made the right choice in coming to me for help. But you know, I feel almost guilty now.” I laugh before cutting it off abruptly, my gaze burning through his.

The resounding silence is thick.

“Don’t you want to know why?” I press.

“Y- yes,” he stutters.

Leaning my torso over the top of his desk, I lower my voice to a murmur. “I never got rid of the tapes.”

His cheeks turn pink, panic spreading through his features.

I move the tip of my staff from his chest, dragging it up his throat until it rests beneath his chin. I force his gaze to meet mine with a flick of my wrist. “I’d hate to see what would happen if they got into the wrong hands.”

Withdrawing my staff, I start to flip it again, enjoying the way Anthony’s eyes follow it around and around in my palm.

“But there’s only so much I can do.” My hand stops moving. “You understand.”

His jaw muscles twitch, his body vibrating in his seat. “Give me an hour.”

A smile spreads across my face. “I’m not unreasonable. I’ll give you two.”

Snapping back my staff, I close it and place it back in my pocket as I leave the room, walking through the stale halls of the Badour courthouse.

I move to grab my phone, my fingers ghosting across Yasmin’s, and I smirk, wondering how badly she’s freaking out over losing it. Three days ago when I told her to pack, she didn’t mention it, and I’m sure by now she’s figured it’s gone forever.

If she’s a good girl today, maybe I’ll give it back. Once she’s married to me legally, it doesn’t really matter if she attempts to talk to the boy, and I’ve rigged her phone to send transcripts of everything to me anyway.

Picking my own cell from my pocket, I scroll past the new voicemail from my mother and dial my office’s reception.

“Mr. Faraci,” Ciara says. “What can I do for you?”

“I need you at the courthouse.”

“Of course. I’ll be there in thirty.”

It takes her closer to an hour to arrive, and then another twenty minutes for me to tell her my expectations.

Don’t speak unless she’s needed, stay out of the way, and sign as the witness when Anthony asks her to. And above all else, don’t breathe a word of it to anybody. The last thing I need is for the press to get wind of this and Ali to find out I’ve secretly married his daughter without him there. I need to tell him in person so I can spin it in my favor.

He’s still alive, which means he can still change his will, and if he realizes what I’m doing, everything could go to complete shit.

But it’s better to take the chance and make sure Yasmin is bound to me rather than give her time to second-guess her smart  decision of playing along. Or even worse, to come up with some foolish plan and try to outsmart me.

I sent Razul, the bodyguard I’ve tasked from my personal security to be her shadow, to bring Yasmin from her house. Personally, I don’t care if anything happens to her, but until everything is said and done—her father and her both out of  the way— she’ll be my wife, and I take great care in protecting my assets.

“So,” Ciara starts as we lean against the wall outside Anthony’s office. “Married, huh?” She picks at her pink painted nails.

I swipe through emails on my phone, ignoring her completely.

“And to Yasmin Karam?” she continues. “Now I get why you were so up in arms when I didn’t let her in the other day. I didn’t even know you were dating.”

I glance at her out of my peripheral vision, my top lip sneering in disgust. “Since when is it a receptionist’s job to know who her boss is fucking?”

She shakes her head. “It’s not. You’re right. I just…I don’t know. I’m surprised is all.”

“I don’t pay you to care about my personal life,” I reply. “I pay you to do what I say. Answer phones, schedule meetings, and when I say jump, you ask how high. That’s it. Got it?”

She nods, moving her gaze to the ground, the toe of her blue- heeled shoe gliding back and forth on the tiled floor.

The sound of an elevator pings in the distance, click-clacks  of high heels on hard floors reverberating off the walls. My eyes fly to the end of the hall just as Yasmin walks around the corner, Razul’s large, bulky frame at her back.

She has a long black peacoat covering her body, the cinched belt making her curves look exquisite. Large black sunglasses cover her eyes entirely, shielding her gaze from my view. Her lips are a fire- engine red that match her manicured nails perfectly, and my eyes trail down her toned legs until they hit her black heels.

Her lips twist into a pathetic attempt of a smile as she reaches me, her head turning to nod at Ciara.

“Gattina,” I say. “You look edible.”

She doesn’t give me a response, too busy untying the belt at her waist and slipping the coat off, handing it to Razul, who folds it over his arm and stands stoically behind her.

My cock jerks at the sight of her in a skintight, bloodred dress, visions of what she looked like naked and splayed out in the throes of pleasure assaulting my mind.

“Hello, husband,” she purrs.

My brows shoot to my hairline, but I recover quickly, smirking as I straighten from where I was leaned against the wall. “Not your husband yet, I’m afraid.”

She looks around, pursing her lips, those black shades still blocking her gaze from my view, which annoys me. It’s easier to tell what’s going through her head when I can see her eyes.

“Is that not why we’re here?” she asks.

I frown, making sure to put on a show for anyone who might care to watch. “I wanted to surprise you.”

Her lips twitch. “Having one of your goons come to collect me and bring me to the courthouse isn’t exactly stealthy, patatino.”

A chuckle bursts out of me at the Italian term of endearment.

I’m sure she learned the word to irritate me, but if anything, it does the opposite, bringing a sense of nostalgia back, one that I haven’t felt in years. My nonna— the one who never left Italy— used to call me patatino, her little potato, whenever I’d speak to her on the phone.

She was the only good thing in my life as a child, and even though I never got to meet her in person, I was devastated when she passed away. I begged to go to her funeral, but it was impossible. My father wouldn’t hear of it, and even if he would have, we didn’t have the money.

It was one of the first times in my life that I promised myself I would never grow up to be financially insecure.

Reaching out toward Yasmin, I link our fingers together, ignoring the way the touch sends an unwelcome tremor through me, and I bring up her hand, pressing a kiss to the back. “Learning Italian just for me? I’m touched.”

Anthony’s office door flies open, and he storms out, his beady blue eyes bouncing from me to Yasmin and then to the two people with us. He nods. “Ready.”

“Excellent,” I say, pulling Yasmin into his office.

“Where is my father?” she whispers, finally taking off her sunglasses and looking around.

“At home, I’d presume. This isn’t about him.”

Just like last time, her nails dig into the back of my hand until they cut through flesh.

I smother a hiss at the pain and tighten my grip until her skin blanches, bending down to ghost my lips across the shell of her ear. “Careful,” I whisper before dropping her hand completely. Moving toward Anthony’s desk, I look down at the shiny, new marriage license, picking up a pen and holding it out toward her. “You’re more than welcome to plan the wedding of your dreams and have him walk you down the aisle. But this is about us.”

She strides toward me, her eyes flicking between the pen and the marriage certificate on the desk’s top. She moves and I wrap my free hand around her wrist, locking her in place.

“In time, you’ll forgive me. I just couldn’t wait another minute to tie us together. Until death do us part.”

Swallowing, she jerks her chin, taking the pen from my hold and twisting toward the license.

My heart ratchets higher, slamming against my ribs as she leans over, her back arching slightly as she prepares to become mine.

I wasn’t sure what I expected when she got here, but it wasn’t this. I’m pleased things are going so smoothly, but I’m not naive, and her being so agreeable makes my hackles rise. Still, the scratch of ink on paper has never sounded so sweet. One step closer to Sultans becoming mine, just as much as Yasmin. She signs her name and then looks up at me, a dark look coasting across her features.

Her jaw tightens and I beam at her.

“What now?” she asks.

I smile. “Now, we get married, gattina.”

Anthony stands at the front, his face drawn and somber as he officiates what must be the quickest ceremony in New York history.

Yasmin’s mouth gapes when I pull out the 8.92- carat canary- yellow diamond, slipping it on her finger along with an eternity band, and she keeps a brave face when she slides the simple black ring on mine. But I can feel the tremor in her hands.

Stepping in close, I brush the tight, black curls away from her face. “Is this the part where I get to kiss the bride?”

I don’t really want to kiss her, but she’s been so docile and tame the entire time she’s been here, and a part of me wants to see how much it takes to get her riled. To stoke that fire that I love to feel, just so I can imagine all the ways I’d love to snuff it out.

She runs her hands up the front of my torso, my abs tightening. I resist the urge to shove her away as she rests her fingers on my chest. I stare down at her, my body stiff as a board, nerves on edge from having someone touch me. I blow out a deep breath and she smirks as she rises on her tiptoes. If I weren’t paying close attention, I’d think that she was enjoying this, but I see the flash of grief in her eyes right before her lips meet mine.

My synapses fire like an explosion, so intense it’s almost painful, but I push through the feeling and wrap my arm around her waist, dragging her closer, my teeth sinking into her lower lip to anchor her to me.

Her lips part and I inhale her breath like it’s stolen air.

My eyes are wide open and so are hers, a battle of wills that neither of us are willing to lose. My tongue slips against hers and she stiffens but allows the movement. And when I deepen the kiss, falling prey to the sweet taste of her mouth, her lids flutter before closing completely, her body relaxing against mine as she starts to kiss me back.

My stomach somersaults, my cock suddenly so hard it aches, and I fist the material of her dress, feeling—for the first time in  my life— as if I can’t get close enough. It catches me off guard, and I should be wary, take it as a giant red flag waving in my face, but instead, I’m lost to the new sensation of having someone touch me and not hating the way it feels.

One of my hands slips up her side, enjoying the way she gasps into my mouth, and I cup her jaw, my thumb pressing against her chin to pry her open further.

Christ.

A throat clears, and Yasmin and I jump apart, our hands dropping away from each other like they’ve been doused in acid.

Her hand flies to her mouth, her wide gaze filling with horror as she stares at me.

I force a haughty look, even though my insides are reeling. “No need to get shy, gattina. You’re my wife now. Nobody will think twice if you take what’s yours.”

Her eyes narrow, but she lowers her hand and glances around, looking at Ciara, Razul, and Anthony. “I prefer to do things like that in private.”

A slow smile spreads across my face. “Then let’s go home.”