Chapter 1
one
brIAR
Why is the devil so good-looking?
I thought he was supposed to be a disgrace. A corrupt angel, ripped from the lofty heights of heaven and shoved into some subhuman pit of heat and hatred? Surely, the ultimate fall from grace should disfigure a man—or at least rough him up a bit.
But no.
Somehow, all that evil turned him into something mythical. Wickedly beautiful.
Painfully so.
I would know; he’s waiting for me on the altar of the Gothic chapel. Wearing a bespoke suit every bit as black as my dress.
And he’s the one who lifts the dark lace veil covering my face.
Cillian Blackwood stands opposite me on the carved marble steps, his expression as grim as mine.
The look seems just right on his stern, too-beautiful face.
I scan over it, absorbing the clean-shaven, solid jaw that somehow manages to stand out alongside his sculpted cheekbones.
Their slashing angles match the thick black brows over his ice-blue eyes.
The eyes of a wolf.
Because that’s what he is.
And in this moment? I’ve never felt more like a lamb. His main course—or maybe just a sacrifice. I suppose I’ll find out tonight.
The priest speaks. I’m not sure why he’s here. Or why we’re here, really. In an actual church. We could have done this at a courthouse.
Or an asylum.
That would have been fitting.
It isn’t as though this exchange has romantic undertones. I’ve never even spoken to the man whose hand ends up in mine, his left ring finger angled for the solid gold band clutched between my pointed nails.
I have to swallow the urge to gouge him as the priest leads me over my vows. I regurgitate them, playing my part. Staring up at Cillian’s face and slipping that hateful ring into place.
Well, staring at the bridge of his nose anyway. I refuse to look into his eyes for this.
He can have anything he thinks he wants, I whisper to myself, because he’ll never have me.
Those words have become my mantra. And as he repeats the same timeless promises back to me—in sickness, in health; for richer, for poorer; for better and for worse—I find I barely hear him.
I’m too busy chanting the words that have become my solace. The one real promise I make today. My only true vow. To myself.
I’m not his.
I’m not anybody’s.
I never will be.
And this devil?
Can go right back to Hell.
Hell, as it turns out, is a bit cheesy.
Gazing out at Blackwood Manor, I repress the unladylike urge to snort.
Because, I mean… really?
Did he hire an architect and show them every stupid villain’s lair and evil king’s castle he could find for inspo?
In the backseat of his Rolls-Royce, Cillian flicks me a brief look of exasperation. His deep voice rumbles like thunder. “What now?”
Somehow, I’ve managed not to speak apart from the words I was forced to repeat at the altar. As a former performer, though, I find it remarkably easy to get my feelings across without voicing any opinions out loud.
I’ve made sure he knows exactly how I feel about all of his choices. This glossy, chauffeured car, his odd choice of wedding venue, the ungodly expensive meal we sat through with my snake of a father and two other old men whose names I refused to learn.
I turned my nose up at the fancy red wine and champagne, harrumphed when presented with caviar, wagyu steak, and priceless fish dishes. The only thing I deigned to accept came in the form of my “wedding cake”—an individual chocolate torte that looked too scrumptious to turn down.
Especially since, at that point, I’d been starving for damn near four days.
My eyes scan over the mansion’s facade, hunting for a lit window to peek inside. The kitchen—I need to be able to sneak into the kitchen.
It will have to be after hours, when he sleeps.
If he sleeps.
Some monsters don’t.
“Briar.”
I hate the way he says my name. The soft rasp of his voice over the first syllable—the slight vibration under both Rs.
I hate that he says it at all.
I preferred being Miss Brynn. Though, given the alternative is now “Mrs. Blackwood”…Sure, buddy, call me Briar.
Snapping a pissy glare at him, I raise my brows. What more do you want, asshole?
I’m here.
I’m—ostensibly—his.
What else is there?
My body is quick to remind me, tightening in all sorts of inconvenient ways and places. I growl at the instincts moshing in my middle.
My Omega could not be more conflicted. On one hand, she’s been desperate for attention from any alpha for as long as I can remember. But, on the other, she’s a girl’s girl. So when I made it clear we could not ever find this particular alpha male attractive…
Well, let’s just say she’s doing her best, okay?
Not now, I remind her, clamping my inner muscles into stillness, hoping to avoid perfuming. We’re in a situation here!
As per usual, around Cillian, she feels distinctly dazed.
Dazzled, really. My father’s constant crusade to keep me pure and chaste for whoever wound up being stupid enough to buy me—spoiler alert: Cillian Fucking Blackwood—left me lacking the presence or proximity of alphas for my entire adult life.
I’ve only been around the bonded ones at the ballet and they all smelled distinctly like Back Up Bitch.
Since I designated at sixteen, my Omega has gone a little loopy whenever we have a chance to share air with any alpha. It’s not her fault that she’s gone a smidge psycho after six years without more than a few moments’ proximity to everything her pitiful heart desires.
It will be fine, though.
She’s on my side here. Not his.
As soon as I make it clear to her that we are not touching this man with a ten-foot pole—and find some way to learn his schedule so I can avoid him indefinitely—she’ll settle down.
Honestly, it should be easy. He’s only one man. I can avoid one man, surely.
My three contractual demands when I agreed to this insanity were pretty clear: my own room; no bonding, ever; and I absolutely refuse to let him touch me—sexually or otherwise—without direct permission.
I threw that last element in behind my father’s back, stealing the paperwork from his desk before it was couriered to my future “husband.” I never expected Cillian to agree.
Because, let’s face it: if I’m not here for sex, why the hell am I here?
He must take promises made in triplicate seriously, at least, because he hasn’t so much as accidentally bumped my arm since we left the altar.
I also noticed that his de-scenter is nearly as thick as mine.
Meaning I, mercifully, don’t have a prayer of figuring out what he smells like, let alone collapsing into some sort of embarrassing omega meltdown over it.
“Briar.”
He says my name again, this time with the edge of a bark. Rude.
My teeth grit as his silent command tickles my throat, forcing a reply I don’t want to give. “What?”
He gestures at the car’s window and the enormous, Gothic-style estate beyond. “Do you object to our house somehow?”
Our house.
Because it is ours, now, I remind myself. Mine and his.
Thinking this, I turn in my seat to get a better look, swallowing another smirk. It truly is comically large. Obviously intended to be imposing, with its pointed spires and intricate curls of stonework, all dipped in an ebony finish.
It would be pretty, maybe, with some landscaping. The dark-gray storm rolling in over the sea in the distance doesn’t help.
“Are we on a cliff?” I ask instead of answering him, noting the jagged rocks tucked around the back of the manse. “Over the ocean?”
Cillian brushes at his spotless suit pants, clearly peeved not to get a straight reply. “Yes.”
I flinch, hating the way my mind automatically catalogs that detail as a last resort. It would look like an accident… or not, if I really wanted to spite him.
No, I tell myself, stern. No. I promised Violet.
Cillian’s cool eyes narrow. “Whatever you’re thinking,” he begins, his voice all black silk to match his shirt. Before he sticks a new knife in me, barking a final command sharper than any blade. “Stop.”
His order gets obeyed, whether I like it or not. My thoughts fling themselves away from the churning gray water, snapping back to the here and now.
At my answering glower, he sighs once more. “Let’s get inside and make our introductions, shall we? There’s a fair bit for all of us to work out.”
All of us.
The words roll around my skull like a marble in an empty bowl.
The alpha—my alpha—adjusts his sleeves, casting me a raised eyebrow. “Surely, my pack will want to meet my new wife.”
H—
His—
His pack?!
I thought he lived alone. Everything he’s ever said and done—from our marriage contract to showing up solo at the church today—promised a lone predator.
When Cillian sees the horrible realization dawn, he flashes a pointy grin. The smile of a wolf, alright—but not necessarily one who operates alone. Which would make me the prey he chased right into their den.
“Did I not mention my pack, Briar?” He tilts his head, all stoic amusement. “How rude of me.”