Chapter 7
seven
brIAR
My perp-walk—or “tour”—with Dane taught me one thing for sure: the footsteps rushing toward my door? Definitely don’t belong to the silent, bearded beast.
God knows what that man is hiding under his mask, but I saw enough of his sideburns to know he has pretty thick facial hair under there.
I’ve amused myself by scrunching my nose over how hot and itchy wearing that thing must be.
Doing my best to avoid thoughts of where I am or how Cillian will react to my refusal of his dinner “invitation.”
When I hear a deliberate patter arrow toward my doors, I instantly bolt upright. My gaze drops to my bare belly and legs, widening.
Shit.
I ripped off my stupid wedding gown the second I was alone, only to realize I have no clothes or other belongings in here. There are plenty of options in the closet Dane showed me, but I couldn’t bring myself to put on any of the garments intended for Mrs. Blackwood.
Somehow, the silky black kimono on the back of the bathroom door felt safer.
Like something I was borrowing, the way a person wears a hotel robe.
I threw it on with every intention of replacing it with my own as soon as possible and decided not to tie it before I lay on the big berry-and-amethyst bed.
That was dumb.
Scrabbling with the sash, I barely get the damn thing closed before both doors fly open.
Because, yeah. They don’t lock.
A trim, lanky figure in a light gray uniform comes barreling into the room, followed closely by a slender woman in similar attire. It’s traditional garb for a valet and a maid, I realize—all proper and layered with starched white details. A stiff collar for the man, a frilled apron for the woman.
I blink at their intrusion, my shock doubling when the woman reaches over and smacks the back of the man’s head. “Louis!” A French flair accents her hiss. “You cannot simply waltz into the madame’s room anymore. She lives here now!”
The gangly man stops just past the threshold, a look of absolute horror draining the color off his thin, handsome face. He turns toward me with both hands raised.
“A thousand apologies,” he says in a matching drawl. Then he coughs, turning red before adding a winsome smile. “Mon Dieu, I’ve certainly made a terrible first impression.”
My open mouth snaps shut, but I can’t form words. A whine from my Omega tangles in my throat as I hold my robe shut and fight to hide my tremors. The man’s expression falls.
“Truly,” he goes on, “I apologize for barging in. Master Cillian requested I come collect you for dinner, and Fiona here was curious…”
He gestures to the pretty brunette maid beside him. She’s an omega, if I’m not mistaken. And so is he.
That fact has a bit of the tension slipping from my shoulders. “I’m Briar,” I manage. “Cillian’s”—hostage, prisoner, purchase—“wife.”
Gah. The taste of those words. The way all my muscles clench when I say them. Even the ones between my hips.
Please, I beg my Omega. You have to hold it together, girl. You’re all I’ve got left.
She nods briskly, muttering to me and herself. Right, right. Sorry.
The male omega seems to know I’m losing my mind.
Apparently it’s amusing, though, because his lips quirk in a mischievous smirk.
“I’m Louis, the jack-of-all-trades around here.
Valet, server, sous-chef. This is my sister, Fiona.
She’s your maid. You’ll meet our chef, Mrs. Porter, if you’re ever brave enough to interrupt her cooking. And then there’s—”
Louis cuts himself off with another choked cough. His sister snorts, rolling her eyes. “Monsieur Coggins, the butler and chauffeur. I suspect he’ll have a word or two about your arrival when you meet him, too.”
Great.
Perfect.
Gossiping butlers and interfering maids. This isn’t the fourteenth century. It’s the eighteenth.
Do you think there’s a guillotine around here somewhere? I honestly wouldn’t even be surprised.
“Joy,” I reply, drenching my voice in sarcasm. “Listen, I’m sure you’re all lovely, but I’m sort of in the middle of a crisis here. I won’t be making any friends in this house and I most definitely won’t be going down for dinner. Ever. So you can tell that pack of motherfucking monsters that I—”
Fiona’s doe eyes bug out. “Shhh,” she interrupts, her hands fluttering anxiously. “Madame, he will hear you.”
She must mean Cillian. But I’m not afraid of him—not really. He had ample opportunity to use excessive force against me today and I’m still in one piece. Though he did look pretty murderous when I turned down four courses in a row during our dinner.
Our first dinner.
Dane wasn’t horrifying, either. Scary-big, for sure. Too bulky for me to have a prayer of fending him off. And tense in a mysterious way I didn’t love, but…
No, the only alpha in this house I think I may actually fear is the too-pretty, silver-blond one. Not because he appears any stronger or more dominant than the others, but because I saw malice in every dark flicker of his eyes.
“Who will hear me?” I ask, scoffing. “Because if it’s either of those dumbass brutes—”
My words die as slow, long-legged paces approach from the hallway.
Where Rhys has been standing all along.
Waiting.
The aristocratic alpha is every bit as lithe and graceful as he looks.
Before I can draw a startled gasp, he closes in on the ornate king-sized bed. I only get a brief glimpse of his feral gaze and the taut, angelic lines of his face before he snaps his hand out and grabs my forearm. With one rough yank, I stumble to my feet.
“Wha—I—”
“You,” he barks, silken and steel all at once, “will shut your fucking mouth.”
His command instantly registers. My Omega squirms under its weight, trying to free me from it. But my lips seal themselves shut as he snaps a furious look at the gawking staff members. “You,” he repeats toward them. “Out.”
The two omegas scurry from the room, leaving mine crying, Wait! Take me with you!
A whine ekes up my throat instead. The loathing on the blond alpha’s face flickers, then turns to malicious glee.
He spins me effortlessly, tangling our legs until I’m forced to walk backward. Into the wall.
He cages me there, paying no heed to my personal space the way Cillian did.
Unlike his pack leader, this alpha invades every way he can, flattening his lean strength into my pitiful body, pinning me with my wrist held fast beside my face and his other hand locking my left arm at my side. His grin is hard with rage.
Downstairs, in the dim foyer, he didn’t look like this. There, he was a shadow. But here, in the light? He’s a fallen god. Some evil deity, carved from cold, unyielding alabaster by a master sculptor.
His face is a celebration of masculine beauty—the highest cheekbones, a perfectly straight nose, the loveliest aqua-gray eyes and dark blond lashes. A jaw sharp enough to slice. And the same chiseled sort of lips that make Cillian’s mouth magnetic. Only this alpha twists his in malevolent delight.
When our position and his expression register, instinctive fear gives way to fury. I bare my teeth in a growl of my own, thrashing against his hold. A spark ignites in his dark eyes.
“Oh, baby.” He chuckles. Somehow—impossibly—more handsome in all his wickedness. “You don’t want to fight. That will just make me hard.”
He presses his groin into my belly, showing how serious he is when I feel an iron ridge against my nearly bare skin.
Shit. Fuck.
I’m still in a robe.
A frantic whine escapes this time. If anything, it only kicks his maniacal smirk higher. “There’s a good girl,” he taunts. “Already halfway to tears. You’d cry real pretty for me while I choked you on my cock, huh?”
His gaze floats over my features, as if considering my worth. Concluding his assessment with a careless shrug. “Too bad I don’t fuck Cillian’s whores.”
The words sink into my center. Rage roils to a bubbling boil.
And I will be damned if this utter asshole thinks he could put his dick anywhere near my mouth without losing it.
“Pwt!”
The venomous alpha rears back as a thick glob of spit splatters across his rich-boy nose. I use his shock to my advantage, ripping my wrists from his hands and jerking my bent knee upright. Into his crotch.
It connects with the hard knot and softer scrotum under his erection. He roars a growl, but I hold my ground, shoving him away. “Call me ‘good girl’ again,” I dare him, “and you’ll no longer have any balls for me to kick.”
Satisfied, I spin for the door. Intending to run and hide in whatever corner of this creep-tastic castle I can find.
But Cillian is there.
Working his cool gaze down my body in a winding loop.
He suddenly flings it away from me, landing a steady glare on his packmate’s face. “Rhys,” he barks. “Downstairs.”
Rhys, I repeat internally as he mutters to himself and storms out of the suite. It’s much too good a name for such an asshole. Maybe I’ll just call him “venom” instead.
Cillian watches the vicious alpha stalk off before pinning me with an equally intimidating stare.
“Dinner is served, wife,” he adds. “Come along.”