Tryst Six Venom by Penelope Douglas

He laughs, glancing to Army and then back to me. “She doesn’t come
with goats or land or anything. We’re poor people, Clay. I mean, you could
probably get us to pay you to take her off our hands.”
Army chuckles, and I cock a brow, losing my patience. “Macon…”
“I don’t know, we might be able to stuff her arms with six packs of Bud
or something,” he offers as her dowry. “Would that do?”
Army cackles louder.
Asshole! I tense up. “Would you shut up?” I bark at Macon. “This was
supposed to be a beautiful moment, dammit.”
I mean, excuse me for living. He’s a southern man. I thought the gesture
of asking for his sister’s hand in marriage would be appreciated.
Fuck it. I’ll just take her, then. “Are you going to create a stink if I marry
your sister?” I growl.
He and Army finish laughing at the irony of an independent woman like
myself, a successful business owner, asking for a man’s permission for
anything.
He calms down, sets down his tool, and walks around the Bronco to me.
A thoughtfulness hits his eyes. “Be good to her?”
I square my shoulders.
“Be faithful and supportive,” he tells me. “It was the only thing my father
could do for my mother. It kept her alive.”
I drop my eyes for a moment, knowing the mental illness that killed
Trysta Jaeger years before she actually died. One of the hardest things to
learn with my brother was that you couldn’t always take away the pain of
those you loved. Just be there.
“At the end of the day, that trust is all you need,” Macon says.
I nod, a little surprised by the tears in my eyes.
He turns and heads back to the car. “If you fail her,” he calls over his
shoulder. “I feed you to the gators.”
Army laughs, but I don’t as I leave the garage and grip the ring in my
pocket.
Macon doesn’t make idle threats.
Macon sucks.