Chapter 15
fifteen
CILLIAN
Dane once told me that the only effective way to deal with torture is to find some greater lesson in it.
The first week of having Briar under my roof is a special kind of hell, but at least I’ve used the time to learn a few things.
For one, my wife enjoys the library. She drinks tea, not coffee. Prefers red wine over champagne. And always, without fail, chooses a black dress.
They look like sin and salvation on her. Underscoring her luminous skin, complementing her shining dark hair. The fabric is stark and crisp against her pale flesh; as sharp as the lines she draws onto her emerald eyes and their thick kohl lashes.
I watch them flutter as her eyes slip closed on a swallowed moan. Stabbing the desire to shift in my seat, I ignore my hardening cock and stare as she scoops a second bite of mushroom risotto past her plump little lips.
This time, she can’t quite conceal her hum of approval.
Given that this is our fifth official dinner as a pack, I should probably be used to watching her eat by now. But there’s something about witnessing her satisfaction and knowing I’ve provided it that turns me on to no end.
I’ve been observing her carefully, reviewing every scrap of footage captured on our home’s security system.
Familiarizing myself with the way she twirls her hair as she drinks her tea, always poring over a book and chewing her bottom lip absently between sips.
How her feet have forgotten how to walk without a subtle point.
The minute expressions on her face—typically veiled by a put-on air of apathy she barely maintains.
Until someone angers her.
Namely, me.
When she glances up and finds me watching, all indifference falls off her features. Poison darkens her green irises. “What?”
Fuck.
I hold myself still, pinning my natural reaction down. With a practiced shrug, I gesture at the two empty seats between us. “You could at least wait for the others.”
Briar scoffs. “And have three of you eyeing me while I’m force-fed? No thank you. I think I’ll take advantage of the fact that your asshole packmates clearly don’t know how to tell time.”
Goddamn it.
This is a losing battle.
I’ve been coming to terms with that thought for forty-eight hours. Trying to figure out how to accelerate my timeline, alter the plan…
Before she destroys me.
I won’t last much longer if she keeps talking to me like this.
And neither will the guys.
They both appear on the threshold of the dining room, having clearly heard her latest insult. Dane ducks his head and shuffles to his seat, while Rhys opens his mouth to launch an answering attack.
My sharp growl cuts him off. I nod at his seat. Pure rage fires his light eyes, but he slides to his place and plops himself down, immediately draining his wineglass and snapping his fingers for more.
Briar watches with ill-disguised disgust. Louis lurches into action, hustling to refill the crystal goblet. I notice that my bride purposefully waits for my packmate to take a large mouthful before unceremoniously announcing, “I’ve made a decision about our deal.”
Rhys instantly chokes on his wine, sputtering all over his white dress shirt and his steaming bowl of risotto. Briar’s eyes sparkle. “Oh,” she adds, blinking in faux innocence, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Good God.
Is she trying to kill me?
I swirl my wineglass so I don’t drag her over my lap and press my erection into her belly. Her ass would look good propped over my knee, especially given the cut of that dress.
This one is strapless, with a tight bodice down to the middle of her thighs and a gossamer skirt floating to the floor. I knew she would like it; I also knew it would put her mouthwatering chest and shoulders on display.
The elegant expanse glows under the light from the amethyst chandelier. All that’s missing are jewels.
Emeralds would offset her irises. Rubies would match her lips.
She waits for Rhys to finish coughing, a tiny, evil smile playing at her mouth. When he notices the expression, his eyes blaze with rage.
If there’s one thing Rhys can’t stand, it’s embarrassment. Leave it to Briar to figure that out after just a handful of meals in his presence.
I wonder what she’s learned about Dane. Or me.
I clear my throat. “A decision?” I repeat, eyeing my wife across the table. Admiring the graceful tilt of her head and working to keep any expression off my face. “Do tell, Mrs. Blackwood.”
Her eyelids lower minutely, casting me a quick glower before she corrects herself, affecting a pleasing expression. It’s clearly one she’s practiced; the demure sweep of her lashes, a pretty purse on her lips.
Hmm. I’ve only been married for five days, but I already know this can’t be good.
I arch my brows expectantly. She rises to the challenge, tilting her chin to meet my gaze. “I want the whole deal in writing. My own house, the money, the promise that I’ll get to leave after my heat. With or without your heir.”
I have to work to keep pride out of my voice. “Of course.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, suspicious of my acquiescence.
“And I want that signed agreement filed with a lawyer of my choosing. And locked in a safety deposit box that only I have access to. It’s at a bank in town.
One of you will need to take me there to lock it up and none of you can ever tell my father about it. ”
I’m genuinely surprised. My background checks and recon work were very thorough and should have turned up a safety deposit box if she had one. I wonder how she managed to keep it a secret from both me and her father. Either way, I’m impressed.
“Alright,” I determine aloud.
Rhys will take her. They’ll both hate it. But I’ll cross that bridge after she gives me what I want.
Briar nods, satisfied. Her preening posture returns, though she carefully avoids eye contact with any of us. “No one touches me unless I say. No one comes into my room except when I want them to. And you all better know what you’re doing.”
More pride swells in my chest. But Dane goes utterly still and Rhys snaps forward, snarling, “Listen here, you little bi—”
I pick up my knife, spinning it in my left hand. A clear warning that Rhys catches in his periphery. Falling silent, he sits back with a new scowl.
“Like I was saying,” Briar goes on, all attitude, “I reserve the right to change my mind any time, any way I want. And you sorry assholes are going to be motherfucking gentlemen about it.”
My palm tingles and my cock kicks. “If you want a gentleman,” I rumble, “you will speak to me like a lady. If you prefer to be a brat, I have other methods for dealing with those.”
Briar’s lips press flat as she exhales through her nose. “Fine.” Her teeth grit. “Sir.”
It’s almost impossible to hide my reaction to that honorific. So much so that I fail, my fingers visibly tensing against the stem of my glass. Briar tracks the movement, her throat bobbing on a swallow.
“I—” She almost stammers but stops herself, tossing her hair back to brazen it out. “I’ve made a schedule.”
Rhys nearly chokes on his merlot again. “A schedule?”
Briar thoroughly ignores him. Which is another surefire way to drive him insane. Bravo, little wife.
“You’ll each get a night, once a week, and no one bothers me otherwise. Oh, and you’ll each have thirty minutes.”
Fucking hell.
She’s adorable. And brilliant.
“Thirty minutes?” Dane repeats, oddly toneless. He’s left his mask on, peering over it in Briar’s direction.
“Yeah.” She only flicks him a quick look, equal to the one she graces Rhys with before turning back to me. “Thirty minutes.”
Rhys sneers, opening his mouth to argue again. I hold up my hand, unable to completely hide my next smirk.
“You know it doesn’t work that way, Briar. If you expect us to perform in such a short amount of time, you’re going to have to let us have you the way we like. Not just on your terms.”
Briar stills, blinking. When she finally moves, I sense the subtle squirm of her lower half. Probably pressing her thighs together.
Indecision flickers in her cat-like eyes. Across the length of the table, I can’t quite tell if she’s confused by what I said or by the fact that it intrigues her.
Possibly both.
Suspicion fills her features. “What would that mean?”
Rhys snorts and takes a glug from his goblet. “She’s a fucking prude, too. Figures,” he mutters, shooting me a glare. “You sure know how to pick ’em, Cill.”
I reach for my knife again, not planning to miss this time, but Briar snaps her own reply. “Spoken like a guy who can’t last thirty seconds, let alone thirty minutes.”
Rhys’s mouth drops open. My wife completely dismisses him with a flip of her dark hair, spearing me with another pointed look. “I deserve to know what I’m agreeing to here, don’t you think, husband? Especially since I wasn’t given that courtesy on the day of our wedding.”
Strategically calling me “husband,” tapping into any guilt I might harbor about our ceremony. Like I said: fucking brilliant.
Another small smile pulls at my mouth. “Of course, dear. But no one can know exactly what they’ll be in the mood for. So if efficiency is important to you, you’re going to have to agree to take whatever we want in the moment and give us permission to follow our impulses.”
Rhys scoffs. “As if she could ever handle my—”
I growl, low and quiet, but the damage is done. Briar’s face fills with indignation. She exhales through her nose and tosses her hair back one final time. “Fine. I’ll do my best to be flexible. But you all better make it snappy.”
“Thirty minutes. You have my word,” I tell my wife. “We’ll buy you a stopwatch if you’d like.”
Briar drums her fingers along her own glass, ignoring my jab and shaking her head. “No time for that,” she says. “We’re starting tonight.”