My darling bride, p.1
My Darling Bride, page 1
ALSO BY ILSA MADDEN-MILLS
Briarwood Academy Series
Very Bad Things
Very Wicked Beginnings
Very Wicked Things
Very Twisted Things
British Bad Boys Series
Dirty English
Filthy English
Spider
Game Changers Series
Not My Romeo
Not My Match
Hawthorne University Series
Boyfriend Bargain
Boyfriend Material
Strangers in Love Series
Beauty and the Baller
Princess and the Player
Waylon University Series
I Dare You
I Bet You
I Hate You
I Promise You
Stand-Alones
Dear Ava
Fake Fiancée
The Revenge Pact
The Last Guy (with Tia Louise)
The Right Stud (with Tia Louise)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2023 by Ilsa Madden-Mills
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781662514005 (paperback)
ISBN-13: 9781662514012 (digital)
Cover design by Letitia Hasser
Cover photography by Michelle Lancaster
Cover image: © VectorShow / Shutterstock
CONTENTS
Chapter 1 GRAHAM
Chapter 2 EMMY
Chapter 3 GRAHAM
Chapter 4 EMMY
Chapter 5 EMMY
Chapter 6 EMMY
Chapter 7 GRAHAM
Chapter 8 GRAHAM
Chapter 9 EMMY
Chapter 10 EMMY
Chapter 11 EMMY
Chapter 12 GRAHAM
Chapter 13 GRAHAM
Chapter 14 EMMY
Chapter 15 GRAHAM
Chapter 16 EMMY
Chapter 17 EMMY
Chapter 18 GRAHAM
Chapter 19 EMMY
Chapter 20 EMMY
Chapter 21 EMMY
Chapter 22 GRAHAM
Chapter 23 EMMY
Chapter 24 EMMY
Chapter 25 GRAHAM
Chapter 26 EMMY
Chapter 27 EMMY
Chapter 28 EMMY
Chapter 29 EMMY
Chapter 30 GRAHAM
Chapter 31 EMMY
Chapter 32 EMMY
Chapter 33 EMMY
Epilogue
AUTHOR’S NOTE
WSJ BESTSELLING AUTHOR ILSA MADDEN-MILLS DELIVERS A GRIPPING, ENEMIES-TO-LOVERS, SECRET-ADMIRER ROMANCE
EXCERPT: DEAR AVA
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chapter 1
GRAHAM
A February wind blows across the field. Narrowing my eyes, I embrace the cold like it’s armor.
There’s palpable tension in the air as we line up. Even the stadium is silent. With five seconds left on the clock, we need a touchdown to win. Jasper, our quarterback, barks out instructions, and we tighten up, poised, hands in the turf, eyes focused on the defense.
I shift my weight, ready to run.
Football is in my veins, the rhythm and cadence of the players, the smell of sweat, the feel of grass beneath my feet, the sky above me.
This is where I belong. On the field. Winning games.
So when the ball is snapped and Jasper tosses it to me, my hands make the perfect catch.
Tucking it under my arm, I run for the goal line. The thrill of the chase is on, the greatest high there is, and my body vibrates with excitement.
Their defense plows toward me, and I pass through them like a ghost.
Almost there.
One. More. Yard.
The crowd jumps up, cheers deafening as they chant, Graham, Graham, Graham!
I never see the tackle coming. The defensive lineman appears in a blind spot, and the hit sends me flying back, but I steady myself, digging my feet into the turf. Crying out in frustration, the defender yanks my face mask down.
Pain radiates to my head as I collide with the ground.
Air whooshes from my lungs.
Too many players are on top of me. I can’t breathe.
Fear paralyzes me as darkness overtakes my vision.
My hands twitch to move, to grab my chest, my head.
The world around me slowly disappears as the fans’ cries fade to white noise.
Something. Is. Wrong.
I feel my heart slowing, not all at once, but with long ponderous beats—then it doesn’t beat at all.
What is this?
Am I dead?
The question echoes in my head, a whisper that comes from everywhere and nowhere all at once.
No way.
I’m in the prime of my health. I woke up this morning with the world at my fingertips.
Terror digs its claws in.
God, someone, hello? Are you out there?
I haven’t been perfect, but please, I need more time, I need to help my brother, I need to . . .
Just as that thought is formed, colors flash in my head, smearing together like oil on a canvas, bleeding into one another. I did acid once in college and tripped. I sat back on the fraternity couch as the world unfolded in unbelievable pictures. It feels like that.
I see a kaleidoscope of vibrant images slipping and sliding together, filling me with powerful emotions.
I see my brother as a kid, chasing me, right on my heels as we look for adventures.
I see my father, walking away from us, his suitcase bumping over the ground.
I see my mother playing the piano.
Divina appears, the woman who shattered my heart.
I see my teammates.
It’s a mess of pictures, blending and meshing together into incomplete memories.
They fade as new visions appear.
An endless highway in the desert.
I smell sunshine and vanilla.
I taste sparkling wine.
A woman’s face appears, slipping in and out of my vision.
She smiles and beckons to me.
Who is she?
A waterfall of pale-blonde hair.
Emerald eyes.
Fragile yet strong.
Is she an angel?
I want to know because . . .
I adore her.
All I feel is perfect tranquility.
Peace.
Happiness.
Amazement ripples over me.
It’s as if I’m on the cusp of great knowledge.
On the meaning of life.
On the meaning of my life.
She disappears like sand in my fingertips, and I cry out, yearning to cling to the memory, to figure out the significance.
All that’s left is the blackest black and endless cold.
Death creeps in like a shadow.
I get it now.
You don’t just see your life flashing before you when you die; you see the life you could have had.
Unbearable grief washes over me.
I’ll never know who she is.
Electricity fires over my body as my heart pushes out a beat. Then another. And another.
My eyes squint open to paramedics. The wind hits me and I gasp, dragging in air.
I’m alive.
Was it all a dream?
Medics push Jasper out of the way, but he juts back between them with his elbows, then kneels on the ground next to me, his face ashen.
He’s taken his helmet off and rakes a hand down his face. His wild hair hangs around his shoulders. “Jesus Christ, man, you nearly got your head pulled off. We thought you were fucking dead!”
I was.
I was.
I swallow, wincing at the pain in my head. At least I can feel my arms and legs. I’m not paralyzed. Football isn’t an easy sport. It’s brutal, and if rules aren’t followed, then shit goes wrong. Shit has gone wrong.
He gives me a grimace, which is weird because when we lose, he’s our cheerleader.
“W-we lost?” I twitch, anxious to get off the gurney.
He pushes me back down. “You scored, G. We’re champions. I’m not even worried about football. Hey, stop moving. They’re taking you to an ambulance.”
The medics finally get him to move as I rethink the lost look on his face. He was thinking this was it for me. I’ll never play again.
Black and gold confetti, the Pythons’ colors, rains down from the sky as I remember catching the pass, the run, the hit, but the rest is hazy.
I saw something.
Someone.
A hissing sound comes from me as pain ripples in my head; then everything goes black.
Chapter 2
EMMY
A few months later
The hot Arizona sun, a pool, and a beverage. Sounds delightful, but the sun is a volcano, the pool belongs to a shithole place called the Golden Iguana, and my beverage is a tepid bottl
There’s one thing that makes me smile: the motel sign has a faded green-and-gold iguana on it, standing upright and grinning as he welcomes you with open arms. He reminds me of that insurance lizard. I’ve named him Darcy.
Welcome to Old Town, a small place outside Tucson in the middle of the Sonoran Desert. A six-hour drive from Vegas, it seemed the last place Kian would look. Sure, I could have caught a plane back to New York, but I wasn’t thinking straight when I left the Bellagio.
The Vegas Incident unfolded so fast. As soon as Kian let me go and stormed out of the room, I ran from the hotel, hopped in a taxi, and told the driver to hit the highway. I didn’t have a plan, and I couldn’t think of what to do or where to go, so I just told him to head east.
This is where I ended up, and I just wanted to sleep.
Pushing Kian out of my head, I swim the length of the pool several times, trying to wear out my body, hoping that will stop my brain from mulling over the past few days.
I cling to the edge of the pool as a Lamborghini with blacked-out windows roars into the parking lot, the engine growling like a beast. Low slung and shiny, the car is lemon yellow, the golden bull emblem sparkling in the sunlight. It parks next to a rusted pickup truck.
“I guess the Four Seasons was booked,” I snark to myself, then wince at my raspy voice. My throat is swollen and aches horribly.
When no one gets out of the car right away, hair rises on the back of my neck.
Wait a minute . . . did Kian rent a different car and follow me?
Nah. He had a bachelor party last night, which means he’s sleeping it off today; plus, I only grabbed a small bag of essentials when I left. My suitcase is still in the room at the Bellagio, along with most of my clothes. For all he knows, I’m wandering around the casinos, pissed at him.
Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I’m overthinking it.
I’ll never let you go, Emmy.
I push Kian’s last words away as I sink underwater, swim to the ladder, and scramble up the steps. I gather my book and sunscreen, then adjust my hair around my shoulder, hiding the purple bruises on my neck. Sliding on my flip-flops, I’m dripping water as I make my way to the gate that leads to the rooms, keeping a wary eye on the car.
The driver’s side door opens, and a dark-haired man gets out.
I’m not even aware of how relieved I am until my shoulders sag. Not Kian.
Stretching his arms up and rolling his neck, the man squints at the sun, swears under his breath, then reaches inside the car. His back is broad. Like, fucking big. He must be at least six and a half feet tall. He thrusts on a pair of aviators and glares at the iguana on the sign as if he’s got a personal vendetta. I don’t know what he has against Darcy.
Muttering a curse, he slams the car door, then shoves a ball cap over his hair. The hat casts his face in shadow, giving him a dark aura.
Lambo looks about as cuddly as a steak knife.
Dressed in designer jeans that cling to his thighs and an expensive-looking button-down with the cuffs rolled up, he has a blade for a nose, sculpted cheekbones, and sensuous lips. Tall. Broad. Muscled. Sex on a stick. Swipe right, ladies.
He takes long strides yet somehow manages to appear graceful—no, scratch that, athletic.
My guess? He’s felt the crack of bone under his hands.
He exudes broodiness. My favorite.
I allow myself to picture just what kind of sexual damage he might cause, wondering at the thrill of being caught up in his arms when he unleashes.
Oh yeah. I’d ride that stallion like a cowgirl gone wild.
I mentally slap myself.
No. More. Men.
My next date will be with a rom-com and a kitten. A cat would be a superb boyfriend—hair balls but no drama.
As I’m picturing kittens dancing around a ball of yarn, Lambo slings a duffel over his shoulder and heads to the front office.
Goodbye, sexy beast. Enjoy your stay at the crappiest motel in Arizona.
Hustling, I head in the opposite direction and take the rusted metal stairwell up to the third-floor-balcony breezeway that leads to my room.
The motel is a squat, crumbling hulk of faded teal stucco with the rooms on the outside. My room is sparse and ugly with ceramic tile instead of carpet and a bed frame that used to vibrate but doesn’t work anymore. As soon as I walked in last night, I stripped off the bedding, checked the mattress for stains, then settled for sleeping on the top sheet with towels as my covers.
Around the motel, tumbleweeds blow and grass pokes through the asphalt. It’s like something out of an old western movie. Last night I heard wolves howling, the lonely sound echoing in the silence. Perhaps I wouldn’t feel so solitary if my headspace were clearer.
There’s a diner across the street and a gas station down the road, yet the motel is far enough from Tucson to see miles and miles of desert. I stood at the edge of it this morning, looking out into its emptiness. Being a city girl, I’d never seen such a sight, and its beauty made my heart swell with appreciation for nature, but there was also fear. It’s a harsh and ambivalent place, one that could swallow me up and never let me go.
Like Kian.
Like any man, really.
Just as I think that, my phone vibrates with a text from him.
Pick up the phone and talk to me!
Bastard. I scroll back. He called me over twenty times while I was in the pool. Guess he knows I left him.
My gut twists, part of me getting a rush that he’s frantic, the other side of me sickened by my response. This thing between me and Kian feels too much like the relationship my mom had with my dad.
Texts pop up, one after another.
Come on, talk to me.
I’m sorry. I fucked up. I never should have put my hands on you. It’s been a hard year, you know that. With you by my side, I’ll be better.
Be better by yourself, jerk.
Yes, he’s had a tough year. He got two DUIs and was removed from the team’s roster, then put money into a restaurant with a friend that later failed. He actually asked me to marry him this weekend. My stomach swirls with anxiety. Doesn’t he know who I am? Marriage is the last thing I want.
Emmy. I was there for you when you needed me. I sat by your side when your gran died. I held you. I didn’t leave. I’m sorry, baby. It will never happen again.
Oh, Kian. That’s what they all say.
Come on, call me. You’re messing with my head.
Nope. I’m done riding his roller coaster. I’m getting off and saying “See you in hell” to his amusement park.
I ram my phone in my bag but miss, and it skitters across the open-air walkway. Cursing, I bend down to swipe it up.
“Hey, gorgeous,” a voice murmurs from behind me, and I whip around in surprise to see Clint Eastwood—not the real one, but a cheap knockoff.
Fake Clint showed up in the motel honky-tonk bar last night in a legit black leather duster, boots, and a hat. He lurked in the shadows cast by the flashing neon lights while I drank at the bar. He made the rounds, chatting up every woman in the place, and I left before he got to me. If he’d been interesting and less of a creep, I might have fooled around with him. Just to get over this awful feeling Kian has left in the pit of my stomach.
Gran said it best: Darling, if he’s no good, pick another pony. Of course, she was talking about the racetrack, but still, it’s a good reference for men as well.
I want to snap back a reply to Fake Clint, but an image of the last time I saw Kian flashes in my head, the shocking sound of his fist hitting the wall next to me, the pieces of drywall that flew into my hair, then the awful press of his fingers against my throat. I couldn’t breathe. I could only fight and slap and scratch at his face. Nausea bubbles as I recall the smell of lemon and butter from the fish we’d had for dinner.
He shoved me away, overturned the room service tray, then stomped out of the door.
I glance around the empty breezeway as my unease rises higher. A knot forms in my gut, and my breathing quickens. I’m alone here. Best to not engage with Clint. I make a noncommittal sound and start to my door.
“Hey, wait, don’t run off,” he says as he follows on my heels. “I saw you at the pool. You were swimming laps like it was your job.”
