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anything, I was royally pissed off.
    “The fact that you’re in a wedding dress and have my ring on your finger begs to fucking differ,” he said, his voice flat and calm. “But even if you weren’t, with the amount of enemies I’ve collected in this city, anyone affiliated with me needs protection. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He turned on his heel and headed out the door.
    It was only after he left my personal space that I released the breath that was trapped in my lungs for what felt like a decade. Why was he so hell-bent on reminding me how dangerous he was?
    “You’re not going to get away with doing this to me, you know,” I called out after him, watching his broad back.
    “That’s where you’re wrong, Red. I get away with everything. Always.” He didn’t even bother to turn around to face me.
    Did he just call me Red?
    “Oh, so now I have a nickname? This marriage isn’t real, Brennan. No matter what will happen in church this afternoon.”
    That finally made him react. He turned his head in my direction. Our eyes locked. His frosty blues pierced through my greens, burning an imaginary hole all the way to the back of my skull.
    Stupid girl . I felt my pulse—wild and manic—behind my eyes, at my throat, in my toes, pumping, pounding, my heart trying to break free out of my skin and run for its life. Why provoke the guy if you can't even handle a stare-down?
    There was a brief beat, and then Brennan offered me one of his unpleasant I-Will-Destroy-You smiles.
    “Dear future wife…” He smirked in a way that made me want to beg for mercy. “If you think you’re going to give me trouble, think again. I invented trouble. I stir it, I mix it, I fucking fix it. Don’t try my patience, because you’ll discover I have absolutely none.”
     

     
    MY FATHER WAS giving me away at the Sacred Heart Catholic Church, conveniently located in the center of the city. The guest list was full of people I didn’t know or care about. A mish-mash of high-profile businessmen, a handful of politicians, one senator and endless socialites.
    A trail of black stretch limos lined up in front of the old church. Sophisticatedly clothed matrons poured out of the cars, assisted by their husbands, sons and daughters. The attire was formal and oozed power, as the men puffed on cigars, laughing with each other and patting shoulders good-naturedly, certainly enjoying the event more than I was.
    By the number of security guards marching through the entrance, you’d think I was marrying the Pope.
    As my gaze roamed the entrance of the church from the limo I sat in, it occurred to me that the flower arrangements flanking the doors had probably cost more than a year’s rent at the apartment Pops and I shared for the past twenty-two years. The mere thought of marrying someone so obscenely reckless with his money sent a cold shudder down my spine.
    I was trying to control the hysterical emotions swirling in me when Pops took my quivering hand in his warm, rough one and squeezed it tight for reassurance.
    “You’re doing the right thing, you know that, right?” Hope gleamed in his eyes.
    As if I was given a choice.
    But I knew what my father didn’t have to tell me. Even if he hadn't accepted Brennan’s request to take me as his wife (and Troy Brennan was undoubtedly one of those hypocritical, old-fashioned assholes who asked your dad for your hand), Brennan would have made it happen one way or the other. No was simply not in his vocabulary. What he wanted, he took.
    And right now, he wanted little old me.
    It made no sense at all. I wasn’t particularly beautiful, or at least not in the way to attract the attention of men of his caliber. My lips, probably my best feature, were pink, narrow and heart-shaped, but otherwise I was ordinary at best. I had a short, scrawny frame; long, fire-engine red hair; almost sickly pale skin and freckles peppering every inch of my round face. I was not Troy Brennan’s type.
    I knew this with