Chapter 8
eight
DANE
What if she doesn’t eat meat? I muse, eyeing the steaming platters Louis spread over the length of the dining table.
It would be unfortunate. Our chef and her assistant make incredible roast chicken. And the beef carpaccio is usually delicious, too.
Rhys grumbles as he stomps into the room and dramatically flings himself into a chair. With a grimace, he drops his head back and pinches the bridge of his nose. Whatever pain he’s in doesn’t stop him from muttering, “Fucking bitch.”
I raise my brows, silently asking for an explanation. He spares me the barest of glances before full-on scowling. “She kicked me in the balls.”
She…
A tangled sound tumbles up my throat. Too gruff to be a scoff and too smooth to be a growl.
I think it might be laughter.
“Seriously?” I snort. “She’s, like, a hundred pounds.”
His eyes narrow. “She spit in my face first.”
This time, a true guffaw scrapes out of me. The rumble is hoarse and unfamiliar, which is sobering. I never used to be like this. Before the fire—the attack, Rhys calls it—I loved to laugh. It didn’t happen often, but…
This is the first time in months that something has struck me as funny instead of darkly ironic. A notion that promptly evaporates when Briar comes shuffling into the room with her shoulders hunched up by her ears.
Wearing a robe.
Good God.
How long has it been since I saw so much of a beautiful woman’s skin?
Too long, apparently. Because it only takes four steps—four slices of her pale flesh peeking from the silky edges of her kimono—for my cock to rouse.
Christ. First laughter and now a hard-on?
The woman is resurrecting pieces of me left and right.
Which is inconvenient, considering the hatred seething behind her expression when she flicks a look at Rhys and me.
Briar slinks into the chair Cillian pulls out at the end of the table, her lush pink mouth puckered in a disgruntled pout. Our pack alpha gently pushes her seat in, his mood shifting from cool disapproval to something foreign as he stares at the shiny raven hair on her crown.
When he straightens, his face flips to impassivity. He clips to the head of the table and nods at me. “Would you serve Briar her meal? Some of everything.”
She flinches at his not-so-subtle emphasis, rocking in her seat. “I’m not hungry.”
“You are,” Cillian returns. “And you’ll eat your meal here with us every night—or dinner will become breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”
Briar’s verdant gaze snaps, her fire hot enough to singe, even given the considerable length of our antique table. The piece seats sixteen, so the fact that I can feel the residual sting of her glare from five places away…
She’s a fighter.
I never would have guessed that when I watched her swan out of the Rolls-Royce. A dancer, yes. A damn wet dream? That, too. But never a fearsome opponent.
I see it now, though. I’ve underestimated her.
And I don’t think I’ve ever underestimated anyone.
That’s worth at least a little bit of respect in my book.
So when the tiny omega turns toward me and mumbles, “Small portions. You might eat enough food for ten regular men, but I—” She squirms under the weight of three stares, ducking her head and mumbling the last part to her lap. “It’s been a while since I had to clean my plate, okay?”
I resist the urge to question her about that. From where I’m sitting, it looks as though she’s never cleaned her plate in her entire life. Or perhaps even had a plate to clear.
What the hell was that crazy scientist doing with her? Surely he knew he had to feed her? Or is this maybe something to do with her dancing? Trying to stay rail-thin for ballet, despite her career-ending injury?
Cillian briefed us on her history. She became a prima ballerina at the age of nineteen, only to lose her place when she fell during a performance last winter.
Dancing was the last vestige of freedom the girl had, apparently, because as soon as she lost her spot, her father decided to make a proper match for her.
According to the details I managed to dig up, Dr. Brynn was desperate for funding to continue his “research,” and decided to sell his daughter’s hand to the highest bidder.
Cillian’s never been one to lose an auction.
Or anything, really.
Which is how we ended up in this godforsaken mess in the first place.
Here in the low candlelight, Briar looks like skin and bones.
I usually like women who are fuller figured—and as pretty as she is, I can’t stop noticing the prominent jut of her clavicles, the protruding hinges of her wrists as she slips her crimson napkin from a gold ring and drapes it over her lap.
Thank God for that. Her musky-tart cherry scent is subtle, but I don’t trust myself if her perfume makes an appearance. Given the hard bulge pressing into my fly and the tension pulled taut across my shoulders, who the hell knows what I’m capable of at this point?
My Alpha’s been spoiling for a fight all damn day. If he doesn’t settle down soon, I might have to find some unfortunate fuckers to kill after dinner.
Gritting my teeth, I carefully spoon decent portions of each dish onto Briar’s porcelain plate. When I set it in front of her she sighs and mutters again, “Gee, thanks, Cujo.”
She’s quick-witted. It takes my mind a moment to catch up, processing the reference, realizing she’s basically calling me a rabid dog.
Because I’m wearing a muzzle.
She isn’t wrong, though. I start to chuckle to myself before a cold wash spills over my guts.
Shit. The mask. I have to take it off to eat.
It’s been a long time since the guys have seen me without it on. We typically take our meals separately—or not at all, when we’re in the middle of a “project.” It never occurred to me that a wife would mean proper dinners.
She isn’t my wife, I remind myself. Just Cillian’s.
His grandfather insists on “legitimate” heirs, but any member of our pack could have legally taken her as our bride for it to be official. Our alpha insisted he be the one to go through with it for reasons he didn’t deign to share.
Although, given how Rhys is wincing and shifting in his chair, maybe Cillian made a good call.
God knows if I had shown up at the altar, we would have had a runaway bride instead of a scantily clad newlywed shooting daggers over a platter of roast chicken.
Briar picks up her fork and begins poking at her food while my packmates fill their plates. I sit still, staring at the rose-and-dahlia centerpiece, contemplating how to get away with not eating. Until a pointed thunk pulls me back to reality.
It’s Cillian, setting my own dish in front of me. Filled to the brim.
The thunderous look on his face speaks for him—informing me that we’re all going to eat so she will. Whether we like it or not.
A silent sigh stoops my shoulders. Fucking hell.
I was hoping to avoid this for as long as possible, but I suspect Cillian might be correct once again; it’s probably better to rip the stitches and expose the wound. While she’s already disgusted by us.
Given the way we’re positioned—with her at the foot of the table and me in the middle portion to her right—she won’t be able to see the worst of the damage. The left side of my profile looks fairly normal, especially in flickering light like this.
I’ll have to make sure to keep all the lights off if we’re alone together.
It’s an insane thought because we won’t be alone together. She only has to choose one of us to make an heir. And she has two much better–looking prospects here.
Not that Cillian would ever cede the honor to Rhys.
She is his wife, after all. They’ll have to consummate their union at some point.
I focus on that fact and the odd sense of grieved relief it gives me. No, I won’t have this omega. But she also won’t have to look at me any more than strictly necessary.
I unlatch the leather straps of the titanium mask, letting the metal and mesh fall into my palm. It’s a relatively subtle motion—and as silent as anything else I do. But I still feel Briar’s attention fly to my recently exposed face. Searching for the damage she can’t yet see.
I shovel food into my mouth, barely tasting it. The sooner I finish, the faster I can cover myself up and get the hell away from this woman. She’s probably scared half to—
“What happened?” Briar asks, her voice steady. “To your face?”
I’m so stunned, I almost whip my head in her direction. Instead, I catch myself at the last second and freeze, sliding my gaze to Briar without moving.
Cillian clears his throat and begins to cut his meat. “We had a fire at one of our offices a couple of years ago,” he explains brusquely.
It’s a lie of omission. We didn’t have a fire. We were set on fire. By someone who knew Rhys and I used that innocuous strip-mall office as a front for our real work.
Flames flash through my memory. They were just that, at the time—flashes of blinding heat. Too bright to look at, even through the choking black smoke that accompanied burning gasoline.
I smelled it first. Rhys was too in the zone, the way he tends to get when we’re closing in on one of our targets. I recall him muttering incoherently as he stood over his maps and satellite images, backlit by the “storage” closet where I had an informant tied to a chair.
I was distracted, too, trying to get a specific name out of the fucker. Ironically, I got it, but couldn’t remember it later. After.
That night marked one of a few select occasions when Cillian Blackwood got blood on his hands. He generally leaves that to me, but when he found out we’d been targeted while dealing with certain cartel members, he drove straight to their Manhattan safe house and annihilated everyone there.
That didn’t surprise me. Cillian is a cold, calculating bastard, but I never doubt that we’re his family.
I’ve been his best friend for as long as either of us can remember—and, even for all their estrangement, he thinks of Rhys as his brother.
He would never let our permanent injuries go unavenged.
I would trust either of my packmates with my life or just about anyone else’s.
Except maybe this omega’s, given the lethal way Rhys glares when she asks, “Why?”
It’s an intelligent question. Why—not how. Meaning she correctly assumes foul play.
“None of your goddamn business, you nosy little viper,” Rhys starts, his carved features creased with outrage. “You think we’re going to make you a real member of this pack just because you come in here wagging your wedding ring and your golden pussy around—”
“Enough,” Cillian interrupts. Cold fury fills his face. “Briar is my wife. She can ask any question she wishes.”
And he can refuse to answer all of them.
Anyone who knows Cillian would hear the fine print implied in that statement. It appeases Rhys, who plucks up his wineglass and swallows three large mouthfuls as he seethes.
“Eat your chicken, Mrs. Blackwood,” our pack leader goes on, rough and smooth at once. “We have important matters to discuss.”