Chapter 2
two
RHYS
Kill me.
I clutch my temples and slump onto the plum-velvet sofa, in what used to be my very favorite room of the manor. My packmate, Dane, glances over, frowning.
I shouldn’t be able to tell, given that the lower portion of his face is obscured by the mask he wears these days.
The black titanium monstrosity stretches from the hollows of his cheekbones, along his ravaged jaw and up to the bottom part of his nose.
Mesh covers his mouth, allowing him to speak—and, I suppose, breathe.
Though he doesn’t often take advantage of the former.
“Silent but deadly” takes on a whole new meaning when one looks at Dane.
He’s enormous and always has been—a hulking hunk of honed muscle, half-covered in sharp, curling ink patterns.
If that wasn’t enough to warn anyone off, his uncanny eyes and the total fucking hatred he exudes usually does the trick.
Failing that?
People die.
I don’t like to know the details. Makes my job as our pack’s lawyer a hell of a lot harder when I do.
Dane sets his phone down and cocks a thick brown brow at me. A silent question. Asking if I want him to turn my music on.
Sometimes, when my headaches get so bad that even silence feels like shards of glass scraping the inside of my skull, we blast classical pieces as loud as the speakers allow. It’s difficult to describe, but having a source for the pain piercing my temples helps me block it out.
With a grunt, I throw one arm over my eyes and wave the other at him. Wordless as ever, he rustles around for the surround-sound remote. A dramatic score gradually swells into the room.
I breathe through my nose, feeling it tingle uselessly. The pressure pressing into my skull swells higher. I do mental gymnastics to block out the noise—and, therefore, some of the ache.
Fuck me, it hurts.
Most people who look at me and Dane probably assume that poor bastard got the worst injuries. Which is fair. Part of his face burned off and had to be molded back together like melted clay.
But is there a screwdriver sticking out of his head?
I think not.
I can’t smell him, but, if I could, I bet I’d find his oaken scent burnt to shit. I’ve known the guy practically my entire life—from the godforsaken day I moved into this haunted house and realized I was probably never going to get to leave it.
He didn’t, either, but he never really had many other options. It was being a ward of the Blackwood family, or being shipped back to the orphanage Cillian’s father yanked him out of.
Honestly? If I were Dane, I might have taken my chances with the bunk beds and communal showers.
Gritting my teeth against a flash of pain, I force my eyes open and peer across the room. Our friend-turned-packmate stands in front of the window like a sentry, staring through the crack between the velvet curtains.
Dane’s first words today rasp behind his mask, his voice rougher and lower than anyone else I know. “They’re here.”
I lurch to my feet, but nausea seethes in my stomach. Anxiety loops through my mind while I slow my movements, gradually trudging to the window and forcing myself to adjust to the gray light.
Fuck this stupid plan. I told Cillian not to do this. I fucking told him I couldn’t do it. Why didn’t he listen?
For months, we argued about his plot to marry a suitable omega. Which is bullshit given the fact that our pack had decided never to take an omega. Mostly because Dane and I refused to be tied to one who wasn’t our mate. And Cillian refused to take one who was.
He has his fucked-up reasons for that, and I have mine. Agreeing to forgo the entire issue was the only way for us to move past it.
Until now.
My sort-of stepbrother is an asshole of the highest order, but he’s usually good for his word. So Dane and I were both blindsided last month when he told us he planned to turn some random girl—Briar Rose Brynn—into his wife. And then refused to discuss it with us at all.
It makes sense now, though. The second I see her.
She steps out from the back of the Rolls with a dancer’s grace. Breathtaking. Unholy beautiful.
A pretty little ballerina, with enough poise to wound… and looks to kill.
She hasn’t danced in months, according to Cillian, but her skill is clear.
The turn of her foot, the arc of her neck.
She’s still wearing that gown; a Blackwood family heirloom.
Our pack alpha insisted on it, probably to make a fucking point.
Or maybe he was telling the truth, and he’s only doing this so our pack can take over Blackwood Corp once and for all.
Either way, message fucking received.
He’s the alpha. And this is his call. Because Dane and I only have the Blackwood name thanks to him.
Dick.
The damn dress still seems remarkably morbid to me. Which is some shit. Because, trust me: if I think it’s morbid…
It doesn’t matter, though. Even if I liked her, my Alpha has made it very clear we won’t have anything to do with her. Although, in my mind, where no one will ever hear, I can almost admit I may get the appeal.
She looks like a dark angel in that goddamn dress. Or a seductive sort of curse.
The kind that might just kill me.
But damn. What a way to go.