Chapter 17
seventeen
DANE
Tonight.
As in this night? The one happening right now?
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Cillian stunned before. In nineteen fucking years, the guy has never let his jaw fall slack the way he does after Briar issues her edict.
Because that’s exactly what it is: a royal decree. A queen telling her men how they’ll perform. And when.
Hell. Now is not the time for a hard-on.
Well, maybe it is for Cillian or Rhys. Or will be after our plates are cleared.
Envy blazes low in my gut. It doesn’t make sense, given the last thing I want is this little omega having to look at me. Or touch me.
But somehow, knowing she won’t choose me stings.
This isn’t new. It’s been over two years since I had anyone in my bed, but my packmates pick up beautiful women all the time and it never affects me.
Why would I be jealous now?
I distract myself by weighing them up, trying to guess who she’ll select. Cillian is the obvious choice. He’s her husband, after all. And undoubtedly more respectful.
Something tells me Briar won’t choose him because he expects her to, though. She seems keen to keep our alpha on his toes.
Rhys is better-looking, but, to be fair, Rhys is more handsome than most men alive. Almost uncomfortably so. I should know—I’ve spent years working next to the fucker.
I know he’s been rude to her, but she must have noticed his face by now… Though, if she picks him, I’ll probably have to station myself outside the door to make sure they don’t kill each oth—
“Dane.”
When my eyes snap up from my plate, they seem to be the only things in motion. The rest of the room has frozen. Watching me.
Once again, Cillian seems thrown. His eyebrows crease as he glances between me and his wife while Rhys openly gapes.
“Please,” Briar adds, quieter.
I’ve never felt so stupid. Please what? Why did she say my name? What is she asking me for? And what is this feeling, squirming under my diaphragm? Like I would literally do anything to pluck the splinters of fear from her eyes?
A blush heats her cheeks. Realization drops into the center of my mind like a boulder.
Is she… choosing me?
“You—” Words trip over each other in my throat. I cough to clear them, mesh muffling my grumble. “You don’t want that. Trust me. You’d regret your decision pretty fucking fast, little girl.”
She doesn’t react to the gruff, sarcastic way I address her. Which is unlike Briar, given how much she hates Cillian calling her anything other than her first name.
Knowing my features are covered, I turn to search her face; expecting hatred or disgust—maybe even mockery.
Come to think of it, a prank is the only explanation that makes sense here. She’s clearly already figured out Rhys and Cillian’s buttons—why wouldn’t she scorn me the same way? Making my disfigurement into a punchline, trying to give me false hope that she might actually want me in some way.
It’s a smart move. Exploiting my worst nightmare.
But the poor thing doesn’t know I stopped hoping for shit a long time ago. I don’t even remember how to hope anymore. That much is clear, given the whistling emptiness expanding where my thoughts should be and the nauseous lurch stabbing my stomach.
If I’m honest, there’s yearning there, too. Rooted so fucking deep it hurts.
All her jokes aside, I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted anything this badly.
As a general rule, longing seems stupidly impractical for a man like me.
I may have gotten in with a wealthy pack, but I had the kind of upbringing that made it clear I will always be poor—even if only deep down, where it counts.
I don’t usually let myself covet beautiful things. Because people like me are designed to break them.
Which makes this aching pull anchored in my middle a fucking problem.
Tell that to my Alpha, though.
I can’t remember the last time he spoke to me. Normally, the bastard only nudges me once in a blue moon, and typically not with any sort of urgency. Now, though…
She’s scared.
The thick, scratchy voice accompanies a sharp bolt of anger—directed at me.
I can’t understand why, until I meet her eyes. He’s right. Fear has filled the sparkling green orbs, overflowing into the rest of her body. Stretched through her shoulders. Blanching her knuckles. Trembling on her lips.
Fucking hell.
Is it possible she isn’t kidding?
Cillian seems to think so. He slides his icy eyes from Briar to me and back again, nodding slowly. “Alright, then.”
He stands and slowly buttons his suit jacket, clutching his glass of wine as he abandons his meal and strides toward the exit. Issuing one final word in his wake.
“Tonight.”
A confirmation. Or maybe a command.
Either way, it will be the end of me.