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  ANNABELLE WINTERS

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  Copyright © 2020 by Annabelle Winters

  All Rights Reserved by Author

  www.annabellewinters.com

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  GIVEN TO THE GROOM

  ANNABELLE WINTERS

  1

  BELL

  Looking back, maybe there were signs.

  Like my Uber having two drivers, perhaps?

  Yup. Two massive, bearded, Mediterranean-looking men dressed in crisp black suits, wearing mirrored Aviator sunglasses, their big heads scanning the surroundings like we were on patrol in a Middle Eastern war-zone or something.

  Except we weren’t in a Middle Eastern war-zone.

  We were in my hometown. A good-sized American city, but not New York or L.A. or Chicago. We’re an easy-going bunch here. It’s quiet. Peaceful. Even idyllic, like a fairytale or one of those sets in Disneyland’s It’s a Small World ride.

  “Um, excuse me,” I’d said, leaning forward in my black dress, making sure I covered my cleavage from the two beasts in the front seat. I couldn’t see their eyes through the sunglasses, but somehow I sensed they were disciplined enough to not shamelessly stare at my boobs.

  Almost like they were scared to stare at my boobs.

  Like they didn’t have the right.

  Like my body already belonged to someone else.

  “Yes?” one of the men said gruffly but with a strange respect. His voice was heavily accented, and I remember thinking he sounded Greek. I know, because I’m a quarter Greek. My Grandma was a first-generation immigrant from the land of olive oil and ouzo, and she held on to her accent until she died at the ripe old age of ninety-seven. Just last year, actually. Didn’t leave me much—though I did pick up her habit of wearing black dresses everywhere.

  Even weddings.

  “I think there’s been a mistake,” I’d said to the two men, trying to sound nonchalant, even jovial. “I think maybe you guys picked up the wrong—”

  “No mistake,” the man says. “We do not make mistakes. No mistake.”

  I raised my eyebrows and shook my head. I checked my phone, and when I saw that my real Uber had canceled after waiting for me outside my apartment building, I could feel the fear start to build.

  I’m not being kidnapped, I’d told myself, smiling in that crazy way people smile in horror movies when they find themselves cornered in a basement and surrounded by zombies or ax-murderers. It’s obviously a mistake. Just a mistake.

  I’d protested to the men again, but this time they didn’t respond. Didn’t even turn their oafish heads. I’d looked at my phone again, stared at the “Emergency Call” thingie, and wondered why I wasn’t calling 911. After all, they hadn’t taken my phone from me.

  I’d stared at my phone for what must have been a long time as all kinds of thoughts flowed through my head. Why did I even get into this car? One glance at my Uber app would have told me this wasn’t my ride. Oh yeah, and there were two dudes dressed like they’re guarding the President sitting inside the black car that I slid my big butt into like I was an airheaded princess. Was I an idiot? Still drunk from last night with the girls?

  “It’s because it was sunny and calm outside, which lulled me into a false sense of security,” I say to myself firmly as I’m forced back to the present, forced to think about what’s going on, how I’ve stepped into what I swear is a different dimension or alternate reality. Yeah, that’s probably it. Grandma’s probably looking down from the clouds and cackling like she used to in her final years, when she was so far gone in her own world that it was almost sweet. No one knew what she was laughing at then.

  Now I know.

  She was laughing at my big fat dumb ass.

  “So this is what a big fat Greek wedding looks like,” I mutter as I feel that manic smile flash on my face again, that crazy-person smile, that smile that’s a mixture of dead calm and unbridled panic. Then I look down at myself. Black dress. White flowers. Boobs popping out like they always do because if I wear loose dresses I look like a freakin’ beach-ball. I’m big, but I’ve got a solid hour-glass shape and I don’t see a need to hide it.

  Though I kinda wanna run and hide now, I think, swallowing hard and frowning as I go over the decisions I made (or didn’t make . . .) that got me here, to the Grand Hotel downtown, to a wedding that clearly isn’t the wedding I’m supposed to be attending.

  At first I’d thought that maybe this was the right wedding. It was a distant acquaintance from high-school. She didn’t have many friends back then, and I think she just invited everyone who was still around so she could fill up the room. Free wine and some lobster (or at least shrimp at the buffet . . .)? Sure, I’d thought. Maybe I even meet some guy at the singles table!

  “But there aren’t any tables, and barely even any guests,” I mutter, glancing around the room and noticing that the room’s almost deserted. The handful of guests—many of whom look exactly like the goons who drove me here—are just standing on the thick red carpet of the Grand Hotel’s ballroom. I don’t see a bar. No waiters with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. No buffet table anywhere. Not a shrimp in sight. What kind of a wedding is this? And why am I here?

  But that’s not the real question, is it.

  No, the real question isn’t really why I’m here.

  The question is why am I still here?!

  I wasn’t forced into that car.

  Nobody stopped me from calling 911.

  Nobody’s blocking my exit even now.

  So why am I still here?

  Why does this feel like it’s part of a plan?

  Why do I feel like even though it’s clearly a mistake, it’s also not a mistake.

  Why do I feel like this is . . .

  Like this is . . .

  Fate?

  Destiny?

  Meant-to-be?

  My vision narrows to a tunnel, sort of like they say happens when your brain is shutting down and you’re about to die or something. But I’m still standing, still calm and panicked at the same time, still asking myself questions that have no logical answers, still wondering if I’ve lost my mind or if this is all a vivid dream as a result of destroying my brain cells with too much cheap red wine.

  “Wake up, Bell,” I whisper to myself, wondering if I should reach around and pinch my soft bum. I decide against it, picturing Grandma saying that would be unladylike, that people would think I have a wedgie and am adjusting my panties that keep disappearing between my buttcheeks.

  I’m almost hysterical as I blink and sway on my feet. Just a mistake, I tell myself again. No need to create a scene. Just stand quietly at the back of the room and then slip out the door. Hell, you can do it right now. Nobody’s looking. And why would they look, anyway? I’m just a stranger in the crowd. A random guest at a wedding that most of these guests don’t seem particularly excited about. I’m nobody. Invisible. Like a ghost, a fairy, a little pixie! Wheee!

  But then suddenly a hush goes over the room and every head turns to me as I stand alone in the back, white flowers in hand, that smile of pure disbelief returning to my face like it’s been painted on by the trickster-demon that’s pulled me into this alternate di
mension, this topsy-turvy world where up is down, left is right, sushi is sashimi, day is night.

  A world in which I’m suddenly not invisible, not a no-name guest, not an anonymous flower-girl.

  No, I realize as an organ sounds from somewhere in the back . . .

  I’m not any of those things.

  I’m the . . . the . . .

  I’m the bride.

  OMFG, I’m the bride!

  Now the organ plays the tune, and I almost faint on my feet as the sparse crowd parts down the middle, opening up an aisle that leads straight to a raised platform at the far end of the ballroom.

  And as I stare at the altar, see the Greek Orthodox priest standing there and smiling like he’s in on the joke, I cock my head and wonder . . .

  Um, if I’m the bride in this nightmare . . .

  Then who’s the groom?!

  I blink and stare down to the end of the aisle, and I gasp when I see a dark, shadowy figure standing tall like a tower, broad like a bridge, heavy like a wrecking ball.

  He’s got his back to me, and all I can see is a shock of thick black hair, wild and unruly, long and untamed.

  I gasp again as I clutch the flowers, and it’s only when I feel myself moving that I realize I’ve just taken a step towards that beast waiting at the end of the aisle.

  Waiting for his bride.

  Waiting for me.

  2

  BRAKOS

  How long do I have to wait before this is over and done with, I think as I resist the urge to glance at my diamond-studded Rolex and then up at the Greek Orthodox priest that I suspect has violated all Ten Commandments and then some in his wretched life as holy-man to the most unholy offshoot of the Greek Mafia.

  I haven’t even bothered to look at my bride-to-be. What fucking difference does it make. This is just an economic alliance, a political necessity, the price I must pay for the life I live. A small price when it’s all said and done, of course.

  Yes, a small price to pay for a life where I am Master, King, even a god like those who sit on Mount Olympus!

  And my life does rival those of the Greek Gods of myth, does it not? I live in a palace like Zeus on Olympus, do I not? Bloody hell, I have mansions and palaces all over Europe, in fact. How many mountain-homes does almighty Zeus have? Just one. Besides, a mountain-top is a bloody awful place to live, is it not? The King of Gods has to hang out on the uncomfortable rocks of a cold mountain, freezing his heavenly balls off in robes and sandals while I wear bespoke Italian shoes and tailored French suits, fly in warm luxury and cool comfort between London and Athens on my own thunderbolt of a private jet as I rule my empire with an iron fist.

  Of course, it is a small empire. The Greek Mafia is not the fucking Cosa Nostra. Hell, the Greek Mafia today isn’t even what it used to be—not with the country itself drowning in debt and unemployment. Yes, unemployed young men means recruitment is up. But if legitimate businesses aren’t making money in Greece, it trickles down to the illegitimate organizations too.

  Which is why I’ve chosen to expand my horizons.

  Look overseas.

  To America.

  And this marriage is the first step in gaining a foothold in the Land of Milk and Honey. We’ll get the formalities done and then I’ll show her to her separate bedroom. I will not touch her. Will not let her get close to me. Will not make the mistake of letting her believe this is an equal partnership, an equal alliance, a real marriage. I am not her husband but her master, not her partner but her king, not a man but a god. She will understand that from day one.

  She will understand that I stand alone.

  I rule alone.

  And I sleep alone.

  That’s part of the reason an arranged marriage to a woman I haven’t even seen yet is perfect. I’m primed and ready to stay detached forever. Untouchable and invincible forever.

  And that shouldn’t be hard with this Greek-American mafia princess, I think, taking a long breath as her footfalls on the red carpet draw near. According to the rumors she is not the most attractive pea in the pod. Not that I care. I look down on sex, anyway. To me sex is just a reminder that we evolved from animals and still have to deal with some of the needs of the animal in us. A need that brings lesser men to their knees, makes them bow.

  And Brakos does not bow to the needs of his body.

  Brakos does not bow to anything or anyone.

  So no, I did not care about what this woman looked like. I had no intention of fucking her anyway. As for perception? Hah! Who gives a damn. I am not some self-conscious socialite mafia prince who gives a shit about being seen at an art opening with some supermodel on my arm. I’m all business. There is nothing in my life but my ambition, my yearning to expand my empire, my craving for power and dominance.

  Total power.

  Total dominance.

  So I’d refused to even look at a photograph of the girl, but some of my guys did, and I’d overheard a couple of them snickering like the malakas they are.

  “Yah,” one of them had said. “Big American girl. Arse bigger than a Santorini sunset.”

  “Agreed,” the other had replied. “Definitely not a supermodel beauty. Afentikó must want this alliance very badly to marry a woman who might squash him if she wants to be on top.”

  I’d stepped out of my chambers after hearing my men insult my unseen bride-to-be, fixing my silencer on my German-engineered Sig Sauer handgun with a casualness that masked the strange way my blood was boiling.

  “When I was your age I made comments like that all the time,” I’d said with a slow smile as I felt the rage bubble up like a volcano rising to the point of no return. It was a rage I couldn’t explain. I am usually cold and composed, my emotions always kept in check. After all, emotions are a man’s Achilles Heel. His weakness. His vulnerability. My whole life has been about controlling that weakness—eliminating that weakness.

  But the anger had taken over as I stared at my two henchmen and gritted my teeth at the way they’d spoken about a woman I hadn’t even seen yet, let alone cared about.

  “Yes, when I was young I often spoke without thinking first,” I’d said to my men, who’d only just noticed the gun hanging loosely in my left hand. “Then I got older and learned the fine art of self-control, of how to shut down your emotions, eliminate that which makes a man weak.” Then I’d sighed and shaken my head. “Too bad neither of you will get the chance to grow older.”

  And as my men cocked their heads in unison like a couple of chickens in the yard, I raised my left hand and put a bullet in each man, right in each fucker’s forehead, killing them before the looks of confusion left their smug, greasy faces.

  I take a breath now as I think back to that uncharacteristic execution. It’s not the killing that bothers me—I’ve done that so many times it’s like brushing my teeth. Nah, it’s the fact that I got so uncontrollably angry at those wankers for insulting a woman who is nothing to me. Nothing.

  My thoughts trail off as a scent comes to me on the breeze, stiffening me like I’m an animal who’s just picked up the musk of his mate. The feeling is so raw it makes my head spin, and I almost stagger on my feet as I blink in confusion. My cock is already hard in my tailored tuxedo trousers, and I know I’m aroused just by that sweet, intoxicating scent coming from the woman walking down the aisle, walking up behind me.

  I swallow hard and shake my head. I’m totally disarmed by the way my body is reacting to just her feminine scent. It makes no fucking sense. Humans don’t have pheromones like animals do—not according to every scientist out there. Maybe it is perfume?

  I sniff the air like a wolf and then shake my shaggy head. No. The aroma that’s getting me hard isn’t some French perfume—hell, I don’t think this woman is wearing any perfume at all.

  “I’m not a fucking animal,” I growl under my breath, glaring down at my pe
aked trousers like I’m talking to my stiff cock, ordering it to settle the fuck down like a good boy. “I control my need. I rule myself. I rule my body.”

  But now those footsteps stop just a few paces behind me, and the blood pounds in my temples as I take deep, gulping breaths like I want to devour the source of that aroma, inhale every last bit of that intoxicating incense, savor every ounce of that seductive scent.

  Slowly my head turns like I’m being pulled by a force outside me, like those swarthy Greek gods sitting on Mount Olympus are grinning down at me, like this whole thing was engineered by those wily deities of myth and mischief. After all, the old Greek gods were always depicted as creatures of contrast, contradiction, susceptible to temptations of the flesh. Greek myth is full of stories of gods and half-gods succumbing to the needs of the human, tested by the pull of the flesh.

  “Is that what this is, Zeus?” I mutter as I stare at the dark-haired goddess standing beside me. She’s dressed in black, dark eye-shadow highlighting her long eyelashes, her thick hourglass shape so pronounced and perfect it feels like she was sculpted by Zeus himself, chiseled out of pure magic, created to tempt me, to test me just like every man who dared call himself a god was tested in the old stories.

  Yes, she was created precisely for that purpose, I decide even though I know the thought is fucking insane. But the feeling only gets stronger as I take in the sight of her womanly curves that make my cock throb, her large breasts that make me drool, her wide hips that make me want to drop to my knees, her magnificent bottom that makes me yearn to push my face in there, thick thighs that I want to see spread before me now and forever, from our wedding bed to our death bed.

  The feeling only gets stronger, and in a flash of crazed insight I decide that yes, she has indeed been sent by those gods of mischief, to test my arrogant claim that I am one of them.

  She has been sent to tempt Brakos.

  To test Brakos.

  To break Brakos.