Chapter 11
eleven
brIAR
I’ll give Cillian Blackwood this: he nailed the whole “evil resides here” aesthetic.
Really. Black marble floors, carved, shadowy archways.
Top notch.
He’s just lucky I happen to like Gothic vibes.
We won’t tell him, I grumbled to myself this morning when the wardrobe I stubbornly avoided last night finally won. After I discovered that the two suitcases I packed hadn’t made it to the manor and were “mysteriously” missing.
I figured I’d better get over my aversion to letting my husband provide my clothing. You know, unless I want to attend all of our meals naked.
This dress is far too beautiful to spend its life hanging in an armoire anyway.
The close-cut silk is ruched around my torso in delicate ripples, its folds and stitches so fine I wonder how on earth it could possibly fit me.
This—along with all the other lace-and-silk confections filling my new wardrobe—feels like the sort of thing a seamstress would spend hours tailoring.
Its short train whispers against the stone floor chilling the soles of my feet. The gorgeous dress was one thing, but shoes seemed like a supremely stupid choice. After all, this is a stealth mission.
A failed one.
But still.
I tried to open Cillian’s office door first. It was locked and didn’t even have a keyhole to tamper with. The rest of the second floor is infuriatingly… open.
Every. Single. Room.
Almost as if Cillian is taunting me. I can practically hear the bastard. Come in and look around, wife. What’s mine is yours.
After creeping around for a half hour, I more or less have the lay of the land. The house is built in the shape of a semi-circle, with the Omega Suite as an end-cap to the right side of the curved hallway.
By the time I’ve scouted the rest of the floor, I’m curious to see which room sits parallel to mine. If the house makes any sense, it will be Cillian’s—though that wouldn’t explain what takes up the space between our rooms.
Could it be the nest?
Is that what’s behind the one and only locked door in my suite? And if he wants to breed me so bad, why the hell did he lock me out of the one place that’s most likely to tap into my omega instincts?
Goddamn riddle of a man.
I lift my hand to clasp his heavy antique doorknob. It turns easily, which somehow still catches me off guard.
He even left his bedroom unlocked? Jesus, if he’s already willing to be this transparent with me, what the hell does the guy have hidden in his office?
A small giggle interrupts before I can push the thick wooden slab open. I startle, jumping as I find the maid smirking at me from what appears to be a threshold to a back staircase, tucking into the dark corner next to Cillian’s double doors.
Fiona raises her elegant brunette brows, speaking with an amused accent. “I would not do that if I were you. Mr. Blackwood is normally still asleep at this hour—and he does not wear pajamas.”
I drop the handle like it seared my palm. Fiona chuckles again. “Yes, it’s quite a show. Also, his bedroom is… different. I’m sure you’ll see eventually.”
Blazing hell. What does that mean?
Taking a cautionary step away, I cast the closed portal a dirty look that earns me even more bemusement. Fiona points above us, to the third floor. “The others will likely still be asleep in their rooms, too. They all stayed up very late. Arguing.”
Arguing?
Over what?
Me?
Could it be that, perhaps, the pack alpha doesn’t have absolute control over the others?
I file that piece of information away, keen to examine it later, and clear my throat, gesturing at the narrow back staircase. “I’ll just… go downstairs, then.”
Fiona nods, stepping aside. “Very good, Madame. I will send Louis with your breakfast tray. He meant to bring it up earlier, but had a slight meltdown when he realized he didn’t know if you preferred tea or coffee. And then couldn’t decide between scones and bagels…”
She shakes her head fondly, exasperation twisting her lips. The way only a sister would.
A phantom knife slides between my ribs, sending a silent gasp of pain to my heart. I swallow hard, my voice coming harsher than I intend. “Tea. And toast.”
Fiona blinks, then drops her head in a practiced curtsy. “Right away, Madame. I’ll have Louis find you as soon as it’s ready.”
She hurries down the hall, and I watch her go, slumping dejectedly into the nearest wall. Shit. I don’t want to be “Madame.” And I definitely don’t want the only other female omega in the whole house to think I’m a raging bitch.
I should try to… make her like me?
Christ on a cracker. I have literally no idea how to do that.
My whole life has been two things: my father’s oppression and ballet.
Years of being made to stay inside our decaying house, forbidden to so much as look out the curtains without his permission.
So many nights spent in his basement laboratory, enduring his experimental procedures, all designed to make me a “healthier” omega.
Because not being one was never an option, according to him. As if he had gotten some golden guarantee from God himself.
I never figured out why, mostly because asking questions about how Violet and I came to be and why we were so different only earned me punishment. “Time to think,” he called it.
Even now, my mind automatically recalls the sound that accompanied that measured reprimand—a rusty key scraping a rustier lock. The punch of a deadbolt. Violet’s whispered voice under the crack in the unlit closet.
Knock twice if you’re okay, Rosie.
I was never okay.
I always knocked twice.
Of all the horrible things I felt after they took her, I remember silence the most. Sitting in that damned closet, knowing that no whispers would come.
Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the wordless quiet of an empty room.
My own chewing echoing in the dingy breakfast nook.
Because Violet wasn’t there to hum anymore.
Between the two of us, she was actually the musical one. Supremely talented with our ancient piano, always warbling soft nonsense lyrics under her breath. Until she sat down to play… and then, magically, they weren’t nonsense at all.
That’s how I started dancing—as a joke. A way to good-naturedly poke fun at her hobby. She played, and I threw my body into exaggerated leaps and twirls, doing anything I could to make her laugh.
We didn’t know our father was paying attention… or that he would try to hone those rare light moments into “ladylike skills.” All the better to attract “proper” packs when he was ready to collect on his investment.
Namely, us. Our lives.
He didn’t expect Violet’s body to betray his carefully crafted plan and designate as a beta.
He didn’t waste much time, then, either. In fact, I think that horrible stormy night came just a couple of weeks after the initial bloodwork. In less than a month, he traded in on Violet’s “meager” value and shifted all his hopes to me.
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t just allowed to leave our house. I was forced. Pushed into auditioning for the prominent city ballet, made to practice until my toes bled and my body felt like it might crumble to dust.
But I liked the pain. I loved the music. And every time I launched myself into arcs and spins, I could pretend, for half a second, that I might never land. That I could float away. On.
Freedom, maybe, is the word.
Or was the word.
Sniffing, I shake off the memories and move toward the back stairway. Curiosity is as good a cure for dread as anything else. Definitely better than the desire to drown myself in a bathtub with my curling iron.
My Omega glowers, and I smirk at her. Too dark?
She harrumphs, not deigning to give my morbid humor any attention. She’s practical that way, just like Violet is.
Was.
Jesus. Is it too early for a cocktail? Surely Snobby McSnobberson has some decent booze around here some—
Oh. Holy. Shit.
The back stairs drop me into another impossible hallway. But instead of more random rooms, an enormous set of double doors hangs open right in front of me. Revealing an absolutely breathtaking library.