Oscar's hand comes up out of nowhere, whip-sharp and blazingly fast, snatching my wrist and making me cry out as he jerks me aside and then grabs my other arm with the same hand, pinning them together. As he does, he steps back and tugs me along with him. His tattooed hand ends up on my throat for the briefest of seconds, the pressure just this side of scary.
“Do not defend him to me,” he purrs, his mouth far too close to mine. His cinnamon scent surrounds me, and my body reacts in a violent and disturbing way. “I'm in a mood, and I can't stand it.”
“Oscar, I will put you in the fucking ground,” Vic roars, but Oscar is only looking at me. His thumb strokes my pulse point as he leans in ever closer to my face.
“When I let you pin me before, I was being nice. Never forget that.” He releases me and I suck in a gasp of air, putting my own hands over my throat. I wasn't actually cut off from breathing in any way, shape, or form, but it's just the idea of it.
Oscar moves quick, much quicker than I thought.
He stalks off and Vic throws a wine bottle at him. It smashes into the wall beside Oscar's head. He pauses for a brief moment to glance back at us.
“You're going to regret doing that,” Victor warns, but Oscar just nods once and then continues off down the hall.
“What the … fuck?” Hael asks, blinking like he's just waking up from a dream. “The hell was that about?”
“You okay?” Aaron asks, but I nod. My fingers are still at my throat, but not because I didn't like it. But because some fucked-up part of me did. To be fair, when I fantasize about Oscar, I usually fantasize about one or the other of us with their hands around someone's throat.
I grit my teeth.
“Fine.” I look back to find Callum on the back of the couch, still crouching, but somehow moved from the counter to this new spot. His face says, if Oscar went any further, I was here. I shiver and move back over to my bottle of wine, lifting it up in a salute. Victor is seething, Aaron is pissed, Hael is reeling, Callum … I think he's just observing for now. “To our wedding.”
“To our wedding,” Aaron says, and nobody misses the way he emphasizes the word our in that statement.
I throw back that bottle like a champ, wipe my lips on the hoodie sleeve again, and accept a baseball bat from Cal's outstretched hand. Well, shit, it really is signed by Babe Ruth. Sorry, man. I flip the hood up on my borrowed Aaron hoodie, climb on top of the counter, and heft the bat in both hands.
“Fuck you, Coraleigh Vincent!” I shout, slamming it down on a glass cookie jar in the shape of a mermaid. Porcelain shards explode outward, ricocheting off the backsplash, off my legs, the side of the refrigerator.
“Fuck you,” Hael agrees, popping the top on another bottle of wine. He chugs as much of it as he can, wine dribbling down the sides of his mouth, and then exhales sharply. “Fuck Oscar. Praise the fatherhood of Brittany's spawn—that is, praise the fact that he isn't me.” Hael chucks the bottle on the floor again, letting it shatter and soak a very expensive looking rug.
I hop from the kitchen island to another counter, swinging the bat and smashing a framed photo of Leigh and her husband, all cuddled up in a casino and holding a fan of green bills in their hand. I mean, come on? Come the fuck on? Once the glass is broken, I tear the picture from the wall and throw it.
Callum just laughs and laughs as Aaron lights up a cigarette and then puts it out on the fancy linen couch, marking the fabric with a permanent black scorch. He lights up again, takes a drag, and then does it again. When he's done with that, he parks the smoke between his lips, and takes out the knife that he wielded on Ophelia from his back pocket.
When he stabs the sofa and fluffing comes out, I start laughing, too.
Victor just watches us all with a dark gaze, sipping his wine and enjoying the mayhem.
“Oh come on, boss,” Cal urges, grabbing a floor lamp and ripping off the shade. He hefts the metal length of it up and offers it to