Hateful Games: (An arranged marriage billionaire romance) (Arranged Games Book 2)

Chapter Twenty-six

My restraints only last for a few minutes before my feet carry me toward my destination. My mind like a crack whore wanting a hit of my fixation of the last ten goddamn years.

Because even as I hate her and want nothing to do with her, I want to know and inhale every little thing about her. I crave to know what she’s doing every second, who she’s with, what naughty book she’s reading, and does she touch herself when the smut scenes get her hot and needy, to the color of her nails that she gets done weekly.

Over the years, she’s become smart in evading the bodyguards I’ve hired for her.

Going as far as to bribing some and turning them against me.

I always find out but the little troublemaker never learns. I was actually impressed when she didn’t stop at my bodyguards and instead flirted her way with my former assistant and fucking up my calendar for days.

My plan to punish her by making her my temp assistant backfired because all her presence did was distract me. I would constantly be watching her sitting at the desk right outside my office and defiantly reading her books on her Kindle e-reader that was attached to her hands twenty-four seven. On the first day, she canceled all my meetings. When I asked her why, her sweet response was the plot was too good in her latest read to ignore.

She thought she’ll do a lousy job until I got annoyed and fired her luscious ass.

Hasn’t happened.

Because I’m as stubborn as her. Although, I did hire a second assistant—a woman this time—just to piss her off. Also to avoid running my company into the ground.

Now, I’ll be living with the little hellion. I can only imagine what kind of torture it’ll be. That’s if we make it through this weekend.

Having seen earlier where they were decorating the area for the mehndi ceremony, I reach it quickly. There’s a balcony just above it from where I can watch discreetly. Loud Bollywood music reaches my ears and as soon as I approach the ledge, my gait falters.

I’m left awestruck by the vision below me.

I squint to make sure I’m not hallucinating.

Because no way that’s my Rose. The girl I’m staring at sitting on the swing with a floral backdrop couldn’t possibly be her. Yet, there’s no mistaking those striking features. Gone is the mysterious girl with red lips and dark clothes, rebelling against the world.

A sweeter and softer side of Rosa is captivating her family and friends that are surrounding her.

Dressed in a dark green blouse, held in place by two thin straps and paired with a matching skirt, leaving her midriff bare. The color of her attire beautifully complements her cherry red hair with a tiara on top.

She looks divine.

But it all looks wrong.

Because I still like her more in black, though. I’d be pissed if this is her father’s doing, forcing her to be someone else. Someone that fits with his idea of image. For all my dad’s flaws, he’s not guilty of trying to shape me into a man with a sheeplike personality.

Shifting the thoughts away, I soak in the red curls framing Rosalie’s face with her lips twisted to the side as she glares at the mehndi guy that Nathan must have been talking about. My lips curve into a smile of their own accord when he says something to her and she looks ready to bite his head off.

But she quickly masks it, as if remembering she isn’t behind closed doors.

I won’t lie and say I haven’t enjoyed every second. As though we’re playing a secret game of hide-and-seek. Usually, it’s the other way around. People trying to hide their love to avoid being torn apart.

For us, it’s the complete opposite.

It’s hatred we’re locking behind closed doors.

I rest my hands on the edge of the balcony as my gaze once again skirts to her because having her in my vicinity and not staring at her is an impossibility. A crime. And has slowly become a weakness I’ve lost control over.

Bianca and Iris stand on either side of her like soldiers. One holds a bottle of juice while the other holds a plate of finger foods, feeding her one by one. The mehndi guy wisely bends his head and gets to work on her right hand while the left one is already finished.

Did he write my name or not?

Why do I even care?

Because you’re bewitched by a woman who is most likely to off you in your sleep.

Despite that, she’ll be sleeping nowhere but in my bed. Danger to my life be damned.

In less than twenty-four hours, she’ll truly belong to me.

In every essence.

The years of back and forth, teasing and tormenting, and burning looks have left a hunger in my bones that can only be quenched by Rosalie. My soon-to-be wife.

My mind and dick are already delirious with the endless possibilities of when I’ll have her under my mercy and command. As if she can sense my attention, her eyes search around the crowd and lift toward the sky until they land in my direction.

Our eyes lock.

Electricity hums in the air. The awareness settling in my veins that her mere attention evokes. The first glance always leaves her stunned and off guard. I know she detests how I am always sneaking up on her. Just like it always takes her a moment to build up her walls of loathing and malice.

That split second tells me I affect her on a deeper level than hatred.

Soon, I’ll have a lifetime to unveil the true intentions she has tucked away.

No way I have her all figured out.

Our connection breaks when in my peripheral, I catch sight of my younger cousin, Miya, approaching Rosalie and her friends. She has been dying to meet her ever since she came to India two days ago.

She captures Rosalie’s attention and immediately, her face brightens into a friendly and loving smile she reserves for her best friends. It only took Miya and Rosalie a week in London to become fast friends. The two caused a lot of chaos.

A relationship that quite honestly shocked me.

Because everyone remotely related to me automatically goes to Rosalie’s hit list.

I watch as she and Miya collide into an embrace, while Rosalie keeps her hands away to avoid spoiling her mehndi. Probably because she wouldn’t want to sit through the ordeal of having to get it done again.

Iris and Bianca hug Miya, welcoming her into their close-knit circle like they’re all old pals. They must already know about my cousin.

I should leave, yet my feet are rooted to the spot.

Rosalie sneaks a glance at me. A mistake because the little action isn’t missed by the other three troublemakers. Miya sees me first and I know there’s no walking away now. Right then, she waves at me and shouts to come down.

Panic strikes Rosalie’s face.

Seeing her squirm is my favorite pastime, so I don’t think twice before taking the stairs in the corner that leads me directly to them. By now, every guest’s attention has zeroed in on me. Their hollering and teasing blend into the background as I approach the girls’ group. I purposely stand next to my bride, who tries her best to appear unflappable. But I’m riveted by the sight of her nervously biting the corner of her mouth while wearing a fierce expression.

“How long have you been watching, Nono?”

That bloody nickname will never leave me alone till the day I die. It’ll probably go over my tombstone. “For God’s sake, stop calling me that, Miya. We’re not kids anymore.”

“I’ll stop once you stop being so annoying.”

“Aww, it’s not that bad, Nono,” teases Iris with a giggle. “Way better than calling you Jiju.”

“I’m so telling this to Dash,” snickers Bianca before shaking her head and pulling out her phone. “Wait… I’ll just text him right now.”

My terrifying glare has no effect on either of them. Today is so not my day. First, it was those two jackasses upstairs, and now them.

“Oops, sorry,” says Miya with a wince. Though her face says the complete opposite.

Ignoring them, I divert my focus to a suspiciously quite Rosalie, who stares anywhere but at me. Up close, it’s harder not to gawk at her with my jaw dropped. Her lips are void of her red lipstick, naturally plump and pink. A rosy hue highlights her cheeks and those coal-black cat eyes slowly lift to mine.

Holding them for a heartbeat and letting her feel the heat of my stare, I roam my gaze down the hollow of her throat to a slim diamond necklace dangling between her cleavage. Curiosity has me paying extra attention to her henna-covered hands looking beautiful with intricate patterns and details.

I want to know if she’ll be wearing my name once the color darkens her naturally tanned skin. Circling her tiny waist, I carefully pull her as close as possible and bend to whisper huskily in her ear, “Did you say no?”

“What?” she mutters, pulling back and putting our mouths inches apart.

“Are you wearing my name on your skin, Rose?” I ask. Everyone ceases to exist until it’s only her I see. “Did you allow the guy to write my name on your hand?”

It must be the same for her because she sasses, “You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Answer me.”

“I will.” A dangerous and mischievous smile graces her face. “On one condition.”

I drag her even closer until our lower halves touch and she has to lift her arms and rest them on my shoulders. We’ve done this dance before, well-versed in the act of pretending to be madly in love in public. My hands drift to her hips and I keep her pressed against me possessively. “What?”

“You write my name on yours first.”

It’s my turn to smirk. “You think I won’t?”

“Will you, hubby?”

The nickname catches me completely off guard. Then there’s no taking it back. She meant it as a taunt but her eyes go round when she feels me thicken beneath my pants. A nervous swallow as her cheeks flush and my fingers flex against her, digging into the flesh.

She softly gasps in my ear.

Before she unintentionally gives me a full-blown hard-on, I take a step back. Turning to the mehndi guy, who is working on another woman, I call him out until he meets my gaze.

“I want you to write Rosalie’s name on my hand.”

Surprises flashes on his face and he quickly obeys, bringing the henna cone with him. Everyone, including the bridesmaids and my cousin, raptly watch as I raise my palm toward the guy. However, I’m peering into Rosalie’s face as her mouth drops open.

“Write Rose,” I say to the man.

The crowd is in awe and cheers upon hearing my nickname for her. The one I only ever called her in private. If I’m going to have her name on my skin, it’ll be the one I gave her. Nothing else.

My wife will only ever be my Rose.

Her thorns painted in only my blood.

“It’s done, sir.”

I look down, seeing Rose scrawled in cursive in the middle of my palm. Crossing the distance to Rosalie once more, I let her see it for herself. “Your turn.”

When she raises her palms toward me, it only takes me a second to find my name written in small letters on the inner side of the ring finger on her left hand. Possessiveness flares that elicit urge to turn it into a tattoo so it’s permanent.

Forever marking her as mine.

So, even as I ravage her world and we’re no longer together, she’ll still be mine. That even trying to erase me will hurt twice as bad.

“Had your fill?” she tries to taunt but it comes out throaty.

“For now.”

Her gaze narrows in mild annoyance.

Smirking, I taunt, “After tomorrow, I’ll see it whenever and wherever I want. Won’t I, Mrs. D’Cruz?”

Once again, I leave her stunned. “You’ve become even more insufferable, know that?”

“You haven’t seen anything yet.” Tracing her parted mouth, my gaze turning greedy, and I promise, “I can’t wait to claim your lips, Rose. Once you’re my wife, I’ll be shutting it up quite often with my mine since you’re hell-bent on running it every chance to make me mad.”

“Then learn some patience.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing until now?”

Leaving her flabbergasted, I drop my hand and turn to leave. Except near the stairs, I find Nathan and Malcolm standing with shit-eating grins. Perfect. They saw everything, giving their stupid thoughts more ammunition.

Walking past them, I warn, “Not a word.”