Chapter 3
three
brIAR
As I glide up the shiny stone steps to the house, the final crescendo from Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake crashes around me.
It takes me a moment to realize it isn’t just in my head. It’s coming from inside.
The song cuts off as soon as Cillian swipes at a hidden keypad beside the door. The metal slab falls away, revealing the wide, rounded foyer.
My eyes don’t know where to leap first. There are so many carvings, curls, and detailed fringes. Then there’s the décor, all gloomy and sumptuous. Berries, purples, and, of course, Cillian’s signature black.
We won’t dwell on the fact that black is also, coincidentally, my signature color…
I drag my focus from the pitch-colored floor over the grand staircase curved along the wall, up to the amethyst chandelier hanging from the center of an intricate dome.
The ceiling is covered in dark designs, devoid of any light, giving the entryway a gloomy, forgotten feel.
The candles don’t help, flickering uselessly on a large marble entry table.
They cast menacing shadows over everything nearby, the shapes squirming in their own weak light as thunder claps outside.
Great.
Fantastic.
Candelabras. Gothic architecture. And an arranged marriage.
It’s the fucking fourteenth century in here.
I shoot Cillian a sideways look, playing off the panic squeezing my insides as I mutter, “Can’t afford the electric bill?”
The alpha is not amused. His jaw flexes. “My packmate gets migraines. The candles are for his benefit.”
I try not to let that make me feel bad. Violet used to get migraines, too. It was part of my father’s excuse for “sending her away.” That, and her designating as a beta.
Perish the thought.
While I do my best to lock my face into utter stillness, my lungs run out of oxygen. For a moment, I consider just passing out. Because, honestly, I do not want to taste the air in here and determine just how much my Omega will be wigging out for the foreseeable future.
Also, fuck this guy.
But that word—fuck—is the one reason I have to stay alert.
I may not be formally educated, but I’m not stupid. The second he mentioned the pack he kept under wraps all these weeks, I knew exactly why he hid them.
Cillian promised not to touch me.
But they did not. And the moment I breathe, for one horrifying beat, I’m glad.
Dear God, yes.
Let them touch me.
Let them tear me to tiny pieces with their teeth.
Let them bend me over this cold marble table and rut into me until my shitty, half-ruined legs don’t even work anymore, please—
But wait. What am I smelling? Because it seems like…
Nothing.
The air is pure. Damp and tainted with the room’s general musk, but otherwise scentless. Locking my trembling knees together beneath my gown, I toss my Omega some side-eye. Uh, babe? You good?
She blinks blearily, replying with the equivalent of a nod. I thought we’d be able to scent them, she admits, sheepish. Sorry.
I forgive her easily, focusing on my relief. Thank God. There are faint traces of alpha-ness in here, but she’s right—they’re nothing special. Something wooden. A spice. Maybe some herb?
But it’s okay. I can breathe, at least. With any luck, my dark cherry scent won’t hit any of them particularly hard, either.
Shuffling footsteps echo on the second-floor landing. Which means there’s exactly zero time for me to process before I glance up again.
Good fucking night.
Holy shit.
Luckily, I have a ton of experience repressing my reactions. I can refuse to give these alphas the satisfaction of knowing I’m afraid, the same way I refused to react to my father’s punishments over the years.
It’s second nature to turn to stone, dropping any facial expression altogether.
Unfortunately, their faces are crystal clear.
And just about as beastly as they come.