Chapter 22
twenty-two
CILLIAN
The greatest trick the devil ever pulled?
Convincing the world he didn’t exist.
And the Blackwoods do that better than anyone.
Our office is about an hour commute from the manor’s strip of pristine North Shore real estate, at the very heart of Manhattan.
So civilized, with its panes of smoked glass and sleek steel beams. Priceless modern art graces the walls of our lobby.
And the building’s security personnel dress like they’re working the door at Bulgari, not the world’s top manufacturer of death.
It takes a trained eye to peer beyond the facade.
The average person wouldn’t notice how Raul—the middle-aged “security liaison” working the elevator keypad—holds himself with the bearing of a trained mercenary.
They would miss that the soles of his shiny black loafers are about a half-inch thicker than they should be; designed to conceal the knife hidden in the toe.
All this art? It’s beautiful, but sometimes I wonder if anyone ever questions how we acquired the pieces, given that many of these artists don’t typically work on commission.
Even the skyscraper itself. It was built in less than six months. Defies several zoning laws. Broke multiple city codes. And no one has ever so much as questioned it.
The signs are all here.
Is it our fault if no one ever bothers to look at them?
The elevator glides open on the fortieth floor. Two more mercs stand sentry on either side as I exit onto the executive level.
Most of this space was designed with appearances in mind. Large windows and opaque glass walls offer natural light and city views. A conference table sits in the middle of the marble floor, always with a lovely floral arrangement at its center. Somewhere, a secretary’s phone chimes.
So innocuous. A pretty, placid office.
I ignore it, striding to the row of rooms built into the farthest wall. Their black stainless steel doors are on par with the aesthetic, but I know they’re actually bulletproof. And fire-proof.
Without bothering to knock, I press on the handle and let myself in. As I suspected, Grandfather sits behind his executive desk. It’s a French antique from the nineteenth century. An heirloom.
For nearly three hundred years, Blackwood patriarchs have sat at that desk until they drop dead. Which means, one day, it will either belong to me… or the other fucker in the room.
“Gideon,” I chip, repressing a smirk at the shock splitting my cousin’s features. I drop my head in a respectful nod. “Grandfather.”
Forsyth Blackwood sits at the helm of his empire, wearing a two-thousand-dollar golf shirt. It’s part of the illusion, I know. He’s supposed to be semi-retired, so he shows up here dressed like he’s hitting the links later. Which is stupid, in the city, but people buy it.
The same way they fall for his over-bleached veneers and the Botox holding his face up. A pretense of vanity, intended to distract from all the true evils this company perpetrates.
Apart from the false trappings of an eccentric old man, Forsyth looks like my father—and, by extension, me. A familiar scowl creases his square features. The thick white hair on his head doesn’t move as he tilts his head slightly, considering me.
Grandfather is many things, but slow isn’t one of them. He snaps together the reason for my unexpected visit within half a second. Begrudging esteem fills the space around his frown. He waves a weathered hand at the other seat opposite his desk.
I unbutton my suit jacket and sit, casting Gideon and his sour expression a brief glance before focusing on my cufflink. Adjusting my sleeve as I murmur, “Apologies for my tardiness. I assume my receptionist forgot to add this meeting to my agenda.”
We all know that’s a lie. My cousin has been gunning for this secret meeting for weeks, trying to scrape together any possible advantage in our race for an heir.
I don’t hold it against him. Some people don’t have the spine or the sense to accomplish a goal without help from on high.
Or so it would seem.
I don’t need to say a word. We all know how embarrassing this is for him. I’m married, with a new bride who—for all they know—might be growing my baby as they speak.
And Gideon’s pack can’t even find a suitable omega.
Neither of them knows I have sources inside their penthouse, reporting the latest updates to me. They think I buy their bullshit story about courting an omega “abroad.”
In reality, Grandfather is fast losing his patience with their pickiness. Though, according to my sources, Gideon’s packmates are the real issue—apparently, they have various objections to this race for an heir.
Mine would, too, if I’d given them the opportunity.
Crossing my ankle over my knee, I carefully flash both men sharp, expectant looks I hope seem believable. As far as Gideon knows, I’m unaware of his agenda. I need him to continue thinking that.
My cousin may not rule his pack with an iron fist, but he isn’t an idiot, either. “We were just discussing the party this weekend,” he casually replies, standing and ambling to Grandfather’s omnipresent bar cart. He pours us each a tumbler of scotch, the early hour be damned.
Gideon slides back into his chair, muddy gray-blue eyes—also similar to mine, but different—jump over to me. “You’re still hosting, right? Giving us all a chance to meet the new ball and chain?”
My molars grind, but I keep my tone neutral and shrug. “I assumed so.”
More like they assumed so. I’d rather keep Briar hidden for the rest of eternity. But she’s supposed to be a show of strength. And what good are those if you don’t actually display them?
Besides, I suspect observing me with Briar is the primary reason our grandfather is attending this “family gathering.” He usually doesn’t like parties, which makes his next statement all the more pointed.
“It will be nice to see the whole pack together,” Grandfather intones, his sharp gaze flickering at me. “I look forward to it.”
Fucking hell.
My whole life has been a series of tests and this is no different. He’s pushing at the edges of this arrangement, looking for loose screws. Ensuring his investments in the future are churning up dividends.
I keep my expression smooth, nodding. “If you wish.”
Grandfather doesn’t seem appeased, though. He huffs a discontented sound. “Just keep that brat of yours on a leash. Important people are joining us and I won’t have her pouting over her meal like she did last weekend.”
My lips roll together for a long moment before I take a slow sip of scotch, forcing my features into a bored expression. “Consider it done.”
Gideon’s gaze bores its way into the side of my face. “Must be easier to get a firm grip, since you paid good money for her.”
I find the Blackwood family crest emblazoned on the wall behind Grandfather’s desk. My brief glance helps me hold my tongue.
Not now. Not yet.
“She’s been fine so far.”
A lie, but one so dull they don’t detect it. Gideon’s eyes narrow. “Fine, not good?” He scoffs. “If you’d held out for a mate, maybe you wouldn’t be fucking a corpse every night.”
No. Not yet. Not now.
“It’s true, she’s not our mate.” I swirl my scotch, inhaling the rich, bitter scent. “But we’re doing our best with what we have. To fulfill Grandfather’s wishes.”
They both nod, my grandfather looking as appeased as Gideon does dour. I swallow a smirk, knowing I’ve already met my goal for today.
This is the way I’ve survived a life that was never meant for me. Take the beatings. The blame. The short end of every stick.
Do it respectfully. Nod your head. Memorize the words: As you wish.
Take every menial task. Do them so competently, no one can question you.
Move in silence. Build your traps. Wait. Wait. Wait.
Gideon sneers in his scotch. We’ve been rivals our whole lives—I’m sure a large part of him is over the moon about me missing out on matehood and settling for a mail-order bride. Even if it puts me ahead in this game between us.
But his petty emotions don’t interest me. So I let him think I don’t see the look that passes over his features.
Because the greatest trick the devil ever pulled?
Has nothing on the plans I’ve made.