Betrayed Bride: Claimed By The Best Man

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and Kloe Guthrie stepped onto the plush carpet of the Starlight Hotel's penthouse corridor. Her fingers ached from gripping the heavy crystal-encrusted skirt of her wedding gown, thousands of Swarovski elements catching the dim light like scattered stars. She'd been shaking hands and air-kissing cheeks for six hours straight, and her palm still felt stiff from the repetitive motion.

Her ankles burned. The four-inch Louboutins she'd insisted on-because Justen loved how they made her legs look-had rubbed raw blisters into her heels with every step. She slowed her pace, wincing as the leather scraped against broken skin.

Kloe fumbled with her satin clutch, extracting the gold-embossed keycard. Her fingers, swollen from the evening's exertion, struggled to find purchase on the smooth plastic. She needed to get inside, peel off this forty-pound dress, and soak in a hot bath before Justen finished his cigars with the groomsmen.

The corridor stretched before her, lit by antique wall sconces that cast pools of amber light between stretches of shadow. As she passed the third doorway, something stopped her. A scent, foreign and wrong, threading through the recycled air of the climate-controlled hallway.

Cheap perfume. Sweet, cloying, aggressively floral.

Kloe's nose wrinkled. She knew that scent. Candyce had bathed in it since they were teenagers, declaring it "her signature" despite every department store in Manhattan carrying identical bottles in their discount bins. Her cousin had worn it tonight, dousing herself before the ceremony while complaining that Kloe's Vera Wang made her own cocktail dress look "intentionally understated."

What was Candyce doing on the penthouse floor?

Kloe took two more steps. The presidential suite loomed at the corridor's end, its mahogany door slightly ajar. A sliver of warm light cut across the carpet from the gap.

Then she heard it.

A sound, breathy and damp, pushed through the crack in the door. It hit Kloe's eardrum like a physical blow-a woman's moan, pitched high and theatrical, the kind of performance Candyce had perfected in high school theater.

Kloe's heart slammed against her ribs. She stopped breathing. Her body moved forward without her permission, drawn by some horrible magnetic pull, until her eye aligned with the door's edge.

Inside, the suite's sitting room was visible. The Tiffany lamp cast everything in sickly gold. On the cream-colored sofa, two bodies moved in a rhythm Kloe recognized but had never seen from this angle. Candyce's red nails dug into broad shoulders. Justen's hands gripped her cousin's waist, his watch-a gift from Kloe's father-glinting under the lamp with every brutal thrust.

"God, you're so much better than her," Justen grunted, his voice thick with liquor and lust. "Like fucking a corpse with Kloe. This face, this body-this is what I wanted."

Candyce giggled, the sound like breaking glass. "You should have seen her face when you put the ring on. So grateful. So pathetic."

"Four years of playing the devoted fiancé." Justen's laugh was ugly, wet. "Worth it for the trust fund control, though. Her grandmother's lawyer finally signed off yesterday. Once we're married, I can start moving assets."

Kloe's stomach heaved. The keycard slipped from her numb fingers, landing on the carpet with a barely audible thud. But in the ringing silence of Kloe's mind, the sound was a gunshot, deafening and final, shattering whatever fragile denial she had left.

She stumbled backward, her shoulder blades colliding with something hard and ceramic. A display pedestal. An antique vase-Ming dynasty, on loan from the hotel's private collection-wobbled violently, its curved belly tilting toward the marble floor.

Her hands flew out instinctively, a desperate, futile gesture to catch the priceless ceramic before it hit the floor. She braced for the inevitable crash, the shouting, the humiliation of being discovered here, listening to her fiancé fuck her cousin on their wedding night.

The impact never came.

A hand shot from the shadows, large and certain, catching the vase's base before it shattered. The Patek Philippe on the wrist caught the light-platinum, complicated, worth more than Kloe's car.

She opened her eyes.

Black wool. Impeccable tailoring. The scent of Cuban tobacco and wintergreen cutting through Candyce's cheap perfume.

Julian Larsen stepped fully into the corridor's dim light, his tie loosened, his dark hair mussed in a way that suggested he'd been running his hands through it. His eyes-gray-green, predatory, amused-fixed on her with the intensity of a man watching prey walk into his trap.

Kloe knew him. Everyone knew Julian Larsen. Justen's best man, his college roommate, his "brother from another mother" who'd flown in from Singapore for the wedding. The man who'd toasted them three hours ago with a speech about loyalty and lifelong friendship.

Had he been standing there the whole time? Had he watched her entire world crumble while she stood there like a naive fool? The thought sent a fresh wave of humiliation through her, hot and corrosive.

Shame flooded Kloe's veins, hot and corrosive. She tried to sidestep, to flee, but Julian moved with her, his broad shoulders blocking the path to the elevator. He advanced one step. Then another. Until her back pressed against the wall and his body created a cage of heat and expensive fabric between her and the rest of the world.

From behind the mahogany door, Justen's voice rose in a mockery of intimacy. "Kloe's probably asleep already. Poor thing was exhausted from all that smiling. Like a doll, you know? Pretty to look at, but nothing happening upstairs or downstairs."

Julian's breath ghosted across her earlobe, warm and deliberate. "So," his voice was a low murmur against her ear, the vibration traveling down her spine. "You could scream and cry. Or you could make him regret he was ever born. The choice is yours. But you only have ten seconds to decide."

Kloe's head snapped up. She met his gaze directly, her voice a ragged whisper. "Are you enjoying this? Watching me fall apart?"

Julian's thumb rose, tracing the sweat-dampened hair at her temple with a gentleness that contradicted everything in his stance. The touch sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.

"I don't enjoy watching," he said. His eyes dropped to her mouth, held there. "But I'm very interested in participating."

The door behind them rattled-Justen shifting position, Candyce's giggle cutting through the wood. Kloe's nails dug into her palms, breaking skin. She felt the wetness of blood, the distant pulse of pain.

Julian's hand dropped, capturing her bleeding fist. His thumb pressed hard into the crescent-shaped wound, sending a bright spike of sensation up her arm.

"Room next door," he said, his voice dropping to a register that vibrated in her chest. "Different room. Different man. Different ending to your wedding night."

Kloe stared at him. At the predator's patience in his eyes. At the certainty that he would wait forever for her answer, that he had nowhere else to be, that this moment-her humiliation, her rage, her desperate need to be someone other than the pathetic bride in the corridor-was exactly what he'd been waiting for.

Her fingers found his lapel. Clenched. Pulled.

Julian's mouth curved, satisfaction and something darker flashing across his features. His arm locked around her waist, lifting her slightly off her feet. With one backward kick, the door to the opposite suite swung open, and the darkness swallowed them both.

The deadbolt engaged with a sound like a gunshot.

Kloe's spine pressed against the oak door, the carved panels digging into her shoulder blades through the wedding gown's silk. The darkness was absolute, thick as velvet, pressing against her eyeballs. She couldn't see Julian, couldn't track him, could only hear the rustle of fabric as he moved somewhere in the void.

A match struck. Sulfur and flame. Julian's face appeared in the sudden light, sharp angles and shadowed hollows, as he touched the flame to a candle on the entryway table. He didn't light the overhead fixtures. The single flame was enough to navigate by, enough to make the darkness feel intentional.

Enough to make her feel trapped.

Kloe's eyes adjusted slowly, picking out shapes. The suite sprawled before her-living area, bar, floor-to-ceiling windows where Manhattan's skyline glittered like a circuit board. Julian walked to the windows, his silhouette blocking the view as he shrugged out of his suit jacket. The garment landed on leather with a whisper.

"There's been a mistake," Kloe heard herself say. Her voice cracked. "I need to leave."

She turned, fumbling for the door handle. Her fingers found cold metal, turned. Nothing. The electronic lock showed red, disabled from some central control panel she couldn't access.

Julian's footsteps approached, unhurried. The clink of crystal. He emerged from the shadows holding two wine glasses, the liquid inside catching the city light through the windows-dark, viscous, the color of dried blood.

"Château Margaux," he said, extending one glass. "1995. A good year. It seems appropriate for... a memorable night. The kind of night that redefines everything that comes after."

Kloe didn't take it. Her hands gripped her ruined skirt, the crystal beads cutting into her palms. "Unlock the door."

Julian studied the wine, swirling it. "Your fiancé and your cousin are probably still on round one. Justen's stamina has always been disappointing." He took a sip, his eyes never leaving her face. "By the time they finish, the hotel staff will be making their morning rounds. Imagine the headlines. 'Bride Discovered Sleeping in Corridor After Wedding Night Abandonment.'"

The glass trembled in his hand. Not from weakness-from restraint. Kloe could see it now, the controlled force in every movement, the way he held himself like a man containing an explosion.

"Or," he continued, "you could stop pretending you want to be the good girl. The loyal wife. The understanding partner." He set his glass down, the crystal ringing against marble. "Thirty seconds, Kloe. Then I open the door and you can go back to being pathetic."

He turned away. Walked to the window. His back was beautiful, the tailoring of his shirt revealing the architecture of muscle beneath, the V-shape that tapered to his waist. He began to count.

"Twenty-nine."

Kloe's mind screamed. The corridor. The elevator. Her grandmother's face when the news broke. The trust fund-God, the trust fund, and how Justen had laughed about it, how he'd used her for four years while-

"Twenty-five."

The antique clock on the mantel ticked, each second a hammer blow. Kloe's breath came short, her vision tunneling. She saw tomorrow's breakfast, the knowing looks from the bridesmaids, Candyce's triumphant smile as she "comforted" the jilted bride.

"Twenty."

Julian's reflection in the glass showed nothing. No tension, no doubt. A man certain of his outcome.

"Fifteen."

Kloe's hand moved without her permission. She crossed the space between them, her fingers closing around the wine glass he'd abandoned on the side table. The liquid sloshed, cool against her skin.

"Ten."

She drank. The Bordeaux hit her throat like velvet fire, and she swallowed convulsively, too fast, the alcohol burning pathways to her stomach. It spilled down her chin, droplets landing on the white silk of her bodice, spreading in patterns that looked like violence.

Julian turned at the sound of her coughing. His eyes dropped to the stain, darkened to something unreadable. He closed the distance between them in two strides, and then his thumb was on her face, rough and hot, smearing the wine across her jaw.

"Still running?" he asked, his voice a vibration she felt in her teeth.

Kloe jerked away. His hand followed, fingers circling her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. His pupils were blown wide, black swallowing the gray-green.

"Tell me," he murmured, his thumb pressing into the hollow beneath her lower lip. "Are you waiting for him to apologize? To explain that Candyce meant nothing? To promise he'll be faithful once he has your money?"

"Stop." The word tore from her throat.

"Stop what? Telling the truth?" Julian's laugh was soft, breathless. "You have no power, Kloe. No leverage. Walk out that door and you're the discarded bride, the laughingstock, the cautionary tale about trusting handsome men with good families."

He released her chin. Stepped back. The loss of his heat felt like falling.

"Five," he said, and turned away again.

Kloe watched his shoulders rise and fall with controlled breaths. The wine hummed in her blood, mixing with the adrenaline, the rage, the desperate humiliation of being seen so completely. Her fingers found his shirt collar, the silk warm from his skin, and she pulled.

Hard.

Julian stumbled backward, caught off guard for the first time. His eyes flashed-surprise, then something predatory and pleased. He recovered instantly, his hand closing around her wrist, his body pressing her against the window's cold glass.

"Say it," he commanded, his mouth an inch from hers. "What do you want?"

Kloe's voice emerged as a whisper, raw and broken and true. "I want him to pay."

Julian smiled. It transformed his face from beautiful to terrifying. His hand slid to the back of her neck, fingers threading through her updo, pins scattering to the floor like shrapnel. He pulled her into the kiss with the certainty of gravity, and Kloe opened her mouth and let him in.

Julian's lips hovered a millimeter from hers, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin, the vibration of his breath against her sensitive flesh. The anticipation was torture-worse than the kiss would be, worse than anything-this suspended moment where she could still pull back, still pretend she was the woman she'd been three hours ago.

Kloe's head tilted back, instinct seeking escape. Julian's hand tightened at her nape, fingers pressing into the tension knots at the base of her skull, holding her exactly where he wanted her.

"Don't," he warned, the word brushing her mouth.

He reached sideways, finding the wine glass on the windowsill. She watched him drink, his throat working, the column of muscle shifting beneath skin she'd never been close enough to study. Then his free hand was at her jaw, thumb and fingers applying precise pressure, and her mouth opened in surprise.

He bent. His lips sealed over hers, and the wine flooded her mouth-warm from his body, flavored with tobacco and something darker, forced past her teeth with the insistence of his tongue. Kloe gagged, swallowed, her hands coming up to push against his chest and finding only unyielding muscle.

Julian didn't relent. His tongue swept through her mouth with methodical thoroughness, claiming every surface, erasing every boundary. The alcohol burned down her throat, pooling heat in her stomach that spread outward, loosening the rigid terror that had held her since the corridor.

Her hands stopped pushing. Curled into fists against his shirtfront. Then, slowly, opened. Spread. Her palms flattened against the hard planes of his chest, feeling the thunder of his heartbeat against her fingertips.

Julian made a sound-low, guttural, approving. His arm hooked beneath her knees, lifting her against him, and Kloe's legs wrapped around his waist with the automatic instinct of a drowning woman clinging to wreckage. The wedding gown bunched between them, layers of tulle and crystal creating a barrier he clearly resented.

He carried her through the dark suite, past furniture she couldn't identify, until the backs of her thighs met the edge of something soft. The bed. He dropped her onto it, the mattress absorbing her weight, and followed her down with the inevitability of a collapsing building.

Kloe's breath left her in a rush. Before she could recover, Julian's hands were at her back, finding the intricate lacing of her bodice. He pulled. The silk cords resisted, then gave way with a sound like ripping silk-no, that was the silk itself, the hand-stitched seams surrendering to his impatience.

The dress died beneath his hands. Pearl buttons scattered across the hardwood, bouncing with musical notes. Crystal beads rained down, catching the city light through the windows, a fortune in embellishment reduced to debris.

Cool air hit Kloe's spine. She gasped, her arms crossing instinctively over her chest, but Julian caught her wrists. His fingers circled her bones easily, pinning both hands above her head in a grip that allowed no negotiation.

"Look at me," he commanded.

Kloe's eyes had squeezed shut. She forced them open, blinking against the moisture that blurred her vision. Julian's face filled her world-harsh, beautiful, stripped of the social mask he wore in public. His hair had fallen across his forehead. His mouth was swollen from kissing her.

"Keep them open," he said, and his free hand traced down her exposed side, thumb finding the sensitive hollow beneath her ribs. "I want to see you."

His mouth followed his hand. Teeth closed on the tendon of her neck, not breaking skin but threatening to, and Kloe's back arched off the mattress with a cry she couldn't suppress. He soothed the mark with his tongue, then moved lower, mapping her collarbone with devastating precision.

Lightning flashed outside the window-distant summer storm, heat breaking over the city. The illumination lasted only a second, but it showed her everything: her own pale limbs against the dark bedding, Julian's dark head at her breast, the destruction of her wedding gown strewn across the floor like shed skin.

Thunder rolled, low and extended, covering the sounds she was making. Covering, too, any noise from the corridor, from the suite next door where her fiancé was still-where Justen was-

Julian's hand moved between her legs, and thought became impossible. Kloe's head fell back, her eyes closing despite his command, and a tear escaped the corner of her eye, tracking toward her temple. She didn't know what it meant. Didn't know if she was mourning or celebrating or simply surviving.

His thumb swiped angrily at the tear, smearing the moisture across her cheek with rough possession. "Don't cry for him in my bed," he murmured, his voice harsh, stripping away any illusion of comfort. The raw dominance in his tone forced Kloe's eyes open, searching his face for a reprieve she wouldn't find. Julian's expression was locked in fierce concentration as his free hand moved to unfasten his remaining buttons, as his weight settled fully over her.

"Last chance," he breathed against her mouth, though they both knew it wasn't true, that the door was locked and her dress was destroyed and she'd already crossed every line that mattered.

Kloe answered by lifting her hips to meet him. Her fingers found the bare skin of his back, digging in, holding on.

The pain when it came was bright and clarifying, a single sharp note that cut through the wine and the chaos. Kloe cried out, the sound swallowed by Julian's mouth, and then they were moving together, and the pain transformed into something else entirely, something that built and built until the storm outside was nothing compared to the one breaking inside her skin.