Chapter 4
four
DANE
I hoped she’d be hideous, for obvious reasons.
Stupid, of course. Cillian told us how lovely she was. But part of me held out, thinking maybe…
Maybe I wouldn’t have to be the monster in this story.
But of course I am.
I’m the monster in everyone’s story.
And she’s stuck with me, the poor thing. Bound to us, legally and in the eyes of whatever church Cillian paid off.
The little omega doesn’t display a shred of emotion. Her stillness reminds me of the marble goddess in our garden—ethereal beauty and cold, unblinking stone. Polished and pretty.
Jesus. Too pretty.
Now that I’m standing here, looking at Briar Rose Brynn—or Blackwood—I’m not sure which of us this will be worse for: her or me.
There’s an obvious sort of cruelty in it, for her. She’s beautiful; I’m ugly. The lack of symmetry would pain anyone in her position, but it’s also particularly cutting for me.
I am ugly. And she is beautiful.
I’ll never be able to show her my face. Or who I am.
I’m not sure why that simple thought puts a cramp in the dim, hollow space behind my ribs, but the realization hits hard before sinking into my center like an anvil. Cillian must sense it; he turns his cool eyes on me.
“Dane, would you show my bride to her room?”
Heartless bastard. I’m obviously the scariest alpha among us. He’s dropping her into the deep end of this nightmare, forcing her to follow me into the bowels of an unfamiliar house.
I don’t know which of us he intends to punish—most people never know with Cillian—but it’s effective either way. I direct a low growl at him while Briar recoils, as if he’s struck her.
Or I have.
Fuck, did that sound scare her? Her scent isn’t strong, to me, but I get the distinct sense that something has soured. The fine hairs on the nape of my neck rise and tingle, distress streaking down my spine.
I grit my teeth and step backward, averting my gaze so I don’t have to see the fear on her flawless face. Cillian’s voice edges toward a bark. “Go, Briar. Dinner will be served at seven.”
I don’t want to glance up again, but my damn instincts have been honed over decades. When her head snaps sharply to the right, I find myself back where I started. Staring.
She cuts our pack leader a disdainful look. “What do you call the five fucking courses I just sat through with you and the Alliance of Evil?”
Shit.
The air in the foyer goes still.
No one speaks to Cillian like that. Not even us.
But what is he going to do? Kill her? He married her. Briar is ours now, and soon, all of polite society will know.
The Blackwoods are American Royalty, after all. Which makes her a newly minted queen.
“I call it you being an abominable brat,” our alpha replies, smooth and unruffled. “You only ate dessert. Perhaps you’ll consume something other than pure sugar this time around. If not, we’ll try again at breakfast.”
Her green eyes flash. “I am not a child.”
Beside me, Rhys snorts, muttering under his breath, “Aren’t you?”
Fucking hell. I forgot he was here, which does not happen to me. My situational awareness is unparalleled. Too keen, in most cases.
But no one can fade into the shadows quite like my packmate. Despite the shock of silver-blond hair on top of his head and the ink curled under his clothes, Rhys has always had a knack for blending in seamlessly. Even when he’s standing in plain sight.
Cillian pretends not to notice our youngest packmate’s jab. He steps toward Briar instead, posture rippling with deadly intent. My muscles swell, adrenaline pumping as I resist the insane urge to throw myself in front of her.
Goddamn omegas. Awakening all sorts of urges I should not have for our prisoner.
Because that’s what she is, basically.
The suited alpha slowly backs her into the wall at the base of the curved staircase. He comes as close as he can without touching her, his ankles pressed into the pooled lace train of her gown.
Calculating blue eyes roam over her face, but he speaks to me. “Dane? Show our omega to her room. Now.”
I grit my teeth against the command, my Alpha chuffing a frustrated snort.
I have to agree with the voice in my middle: this woman is a lot of things.
But she definitely isn’t ours.
In another life, Briar Rose Brynn would have made an excellent assassin.
She moves as soundlessly as I do. Slippered, dainty feet eat up silent steps while I stalk down the second-floor hall, grunting one-word explanations behind my mask.
“Bathroom.”
“Closet.”
“Gym.”
Cillian’s bride may loathe us, but she’s curious.
Her wide green gaze darts into every room we pass, blinking to capture mental pictures.
She thinks I can’t see her cataloging her surroundings, because she waits until I face forward after every cracked door.
Clearly, she doesn’t realize my peripheral vision is unmatched.
It helps to see people coming if you don’t want them to kill you.
Although, at this rate.
I pause outside the room nearest to the double doors at the very end of the floor. My knuckles tap it softly as I hesitate, questioning how much to say.
“Cillian’s study.” My throat scratches as I swallow. I swear I haven’t spoken this much in months. “You never go in here unannounced. Trust me.”
Her answering snort is completely deserved.
Because—hell—did I just say trust me?
Yes, delicate, beautiful omega; trust the huge, masked alpha you’ve literally never met who’s dragging you around this horror-show of a haunted mansion as his literal prisoner.
I rub the nape of my neck as it heats with chagrin. I didn’t agree to this, damn it. I told Cillian this was a bad idea. I begged him not to marry a pretty omega, told him I didn’t think it would solve our current issues. Especially since she isn’t scent-matched to us.
Let’s be honest—a mate is the only way anyone could ever tolerate a melted face like mine. Or Rhys’s personality.
Briar pauses a good four feet away when I get to her suite. Smart girl, staying out of arm’s reach.
Her pretty eyes loop over the doors. Looking for an external deadbolt or some sort of lock bar, I assume. She shouldn’t be relieved not to find one; this isn’t where we keep our usual hostages.
Just, apparently, the ones Cillian marries.
With a silent sigh, I depress both polished brass handles and fling the carved doors open.
The room isn’t bad, as far as prisons go. I haven’t been in this house’s Omega Suite since we bought the place, but, clearly, Cillian had it prepared. Coggins must have spent weeks cleaning in here.
It’s the only white room in the whole damn house. All the same Gothic architecture and pomp that Cillian and Rhys prefer, but, in here, the etched curls and fine details are dipped in ivory.
Snowy wainscoting and stonework make the bed especially dramatic. Draped in every feminine shade from deep plum to rich, raspberry red, it’s clear the four-poster wrought-iron frame was designed with certain sorts of activities in mind.
Just looking at it conjures about forty different ways to tie a person up.
Or down.
I turn away, ignoring the rumble that starts low in my lungs as I step aside to give Briar more room.
She glides to the center of the ornate rug, her black-lace gown trailing over the Oriental pattern. Intelligent eyes roam past the white vanity and its matching stool. Up to the enormous smoked-crystal chandelier casting gray light that doesn’t quite reach the room’s shadowy corners.
One of those holds built-in bookshelves full of tomes that match the colors on the bed and the rug. Another has two perpendicular doors—one for her closet, one for her lavish bathroom.
Part of me hopes she’ll walk over and peek inside. The rest of this room may be as ominous as it is beautiful, but I remember the bathroom’s impressive luxury. All white marble with onyx veins and brushed gold fixtures.
She might like it, I think, taking in her dark, heavy eye makeup and the thin gold chain strapped around her right wrist. Or at least appreciate having a door that locks.
The bedroom doesn’t.
Believe me—I checked.
She doesn’t ask about the nest and I’m grateful. All I know is that no one has been in there for a long-ass time. I’m pretty sure there are two ways to access it, one from this room and one from Cillian’s…
Instead of heading for the mystery nest or the safety of the en suite, Briar drifts toward the balcony opposite the room’s entrance. Her dark, flawless brows crease as she frowns at the view through the French doors, confused.
I gust out another deep breath, stepping closer without really meaning to. Planting my feet more than a yard away, I nod at them, urging her to open one.
It squeals on its hinges, but Briar doesn’t seem to mind. She pulls the painted wood out of her way and steps onto the rounded platform beyond… jerking into complete stillness.
“What—”
She doesn’t need to finish the question—it’s obvious. And one I’ve wondered a few times myself, looking up at it from the outside.
Because the entire balcony has essentially become an atrium. Only, instead of glass to enclose the view of the ocean and the cliffs below, the iron railing is completely ensnared in a wall of roses.
Dark crimson and pure white, the budding blooms hang from a tangle of thorny vines at least six inches thick. Layer upon layer of rose plants, all about to reach the height of their season.
Briar runs her gaze along the overgrown railing, the completely obstructed view…
And I see the moment she understands.
These weren’t here before.
They’re here for her. To keep her in.
It’s the one thing that gives me pause about Cillian and his supposed plans. Because he approached us with this marriage strategy a couple of months ago. Out of necessity…
But he had these roses planted over a year ago.
Dozens of them.
Two stories below.
Did he know they’d grow to this height by this specific time? Was he always planning to lock an omega in here? And did he know it would be Briar?
Briar Rose?
The same questions reflect in the beautiful woman’s eyes as she turns to me. I stare at the glowing green, anticipating one of the inquiries I wish I’d bothered to torture Cillian for answers to.
Instead, she murmurs, “How long until the roses die?”
Because then it will just be a tangle of thorns.
A wall of death.
“Two months, probably,” I husk.
Her nod is absent, her voice light and faraway. “Figures. My heat is in two months.”
And now she’ll have to watch these roses bloom and wither, knowing every fallen petal brings her that much closer to the three of us descending on her like wolves to a carcass.
The knife in my gut wrenches viciously. The storm beyond the wall of thorns sends a clap of thunder over the sea. Briar shivers.
And we both watch as a blood-red petal floats to the cold stone floor.