CHAPTER 131: CHAPTER HUNDRED AND THIRTY ONE

He pulled his hand back. He turned to the teapot. He poured a cup of tea, the amber liquid steaming in the cool air. He added a lump of sugar, just the way she liked it.

Marissa thought again "How did he know my preferences? Someone is feeding him information or he’s stalking me."

He held the cup out to her.

"Why don’t you two share a man?" Carlos asked.

The question was so absurd, so vile, that Marissa almost laughed.

"Share a man?" she repeated.

"Yes," Carlos said, his eyes gleaming. "You and Ashlyn. Sisters sharing everything. It is poetic. I can take care of both of you. I have enough love for two."

He offered her the tea again, pushing the cup closer to her hand.

Marissa looked at the tea.

"And Ashlyn agreed?" Marissa asked. "She agreed to share her husband with the woman she hates?"

Carlos shrugged. "I can easily persuade her," he said confidently. "As long as you agree. She does what I say. She wants to keep her position. If bringing you into our bed keeps me happy, she will do it."

Marissa smiled. She reached out and took the cup from him.

"You are very confident," she said.

Carlos grinned. "I know women."

Immediately, Marissa’s smile dropped. Her face went blank.

She didn’t drink. She splashed the hot tea directly into his face.

"Argh!" Carlos yelled.

The hot liquid hit his eyes and his nose. He was temporarily blinded. He stood up abruptly from the table, stumbling back, his hands flying to his face to wipe away the stinging tea. The cup fell to the grass.

Marissa didn’t wait. She stood up too.

She swung her hand.

SLAP!

She hit him hard on the left cheek. His head snapped to the side.

SLAP!

She hit him on the right cheek with the back of her hand.

Carlos was disoriented, blinded, and in pain. He tried to grab her. "You witch!"

Marissa stepped in close. She gathered her strength. She lifted her leg, her heavy skirts swishing.

She kicked him. Hard. Directly in the gonads.

It was a precise, brutal kick.

Carlos’s eyes bulged. His mouth opened in a silent scream. The air left his lungs.

He fell to his knees. He clutched his groin with both hands, curling into a ball on the grass. His face turned a bright, tomato red.

"Ghh... gghhh..."

His groans filled the air. They were pathetic, high-pitched sounds of agony.

Marissa stood over him. She looked down at his writhing form. She smoothed her dress, checking for any tea stains.

" Derek bought this for me. If this dress is ruined you will have to pay." She said in anger. But as she checked, she saw there were none.

"So useless," She turned to him, her voice dripping with disdain. "Yet so delusional."

She crouched down to the grass, bringing her face close to his ear so he could hear every word clearly through his pain.

"I should share a man with my sister?" she asked. "And that man is you?"

She laughed. It was a cold sound.

"Are you mad?" she hissed. "Look at you. What do you think you can offer me?"

Carlos groaned, trying to lift his head, but the pain was too intense.

"Protection?" Marissa asked. "You have none. You can’t even protect your own wife from a whip. You couldn’t protect yourself from a cup of tea."

She counted off on her fingers.

"Security? None. You have no money. You steal from your wife’s dowry."

"Title? None. You are the second son. The spare. A nobody. A bastard."

"Wealth? None. You manage what is distributed by me."

" I am very materialistic Carlos and you don’t have any material." She click her tongue.

She leaned closer.

"The only thing you have to offer," she whispered, looking at his hands clutching his crotch, "is your testicles. And honestly, Carlos, they don’t seem very impressive right now."

Carlos whimpered. The insult cut deeper than the kick.

"I would rather pay a gigolo," Marissa said, standing up tall. "I would rather pay a common street man than warm your bed. At least a gigolo works for his money."

She walked to the table. She picked up her black fan. She dusted off a crumb of pastry that had fallen on it.

She turned her back on him.

"Don’t pull a stunt like this ever again," she commanded. "Or next time, I won’t use tea. I’ll use boiling oil."

She snapped her fan open.

Click.

She began to flutter it, walking away from the oak tree, leaving the romantic picnic and the groaning man behind.

She walked toward her waiting carriage. The driver and the footman were staring straight ahead, pretending they hadn’t seen or heard anything, though their knuckles were white on the reins.

Marissa’s thoughts were angry as she walked. The adrenaline was fading, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.

"I should have just killed him in my past life," she thought furiously. "After the King gave me the title. I should have executed him then. I should have saved myself the trouble of dealing with him now."

She reached the carriage. The footman opened the door.

"Good for nothing fool," she thought. "He almost ruined my dress. He ruined my mood. And he ruined my meeting with Derek."

Wait.

She paused with one foot on the step.

Derek.

"Where is Derek?" she wondered. "The note said noon. Did Carlos send the note? Or did he intercept it?"

She looked back at the oak tree. Carlos was still on the ground.

She shook her head. It didn’t matter. The mood was broken.

She entered into the carriage. She sat down on the velvet seat.

"Home," she ordered.

The carriage lurched forward. They left the hill, rolling back down toward the estate.

Marissa sat alone in the carriage. She closed her fan. She looked at her hand, the one that had slapped him. It stung.

She sighed.

"Men," she muttered.

But as the carriage turned the corner, hidden in the dense treeline at the edge of the forest, a man on a black horse watched her go.

It was Derek.

He was dressed in his riding clothes. He had a small, wrapped box in his hand—the surprise he had promised.

He had arrived late. He had been detained at the barracks. He had ridden hard to get to the oak tree.

He had arrived just in time to see his brother on his knees. He had arrived just in time to see his wife deliver two slaps and a kick that would make a soldier proud.

He had heard her speech. "I would rather pay a gigolo."

Derek watched the carriage disappear. He looked at the box in his hand. Then he looked at his brother, who was still rolling on the grass.

A slow smile spread across Derek’s face.

"My wife," he whispered to himself, "is truly terrifying."

He turned his horse around. He wouldn’t go to her now. She needed time to cool down. And he... he needed to stop laughing.