Chapter 30
thirty
brIAR
“Of all the kinky, fucked-up bullshit—”
My muttering goes undetected as I stomp down the front staircase. Wisps of sheer tulle swish around my hips, flouncing with each step. I glare at the dove-gray leotard. Fresh rage rolls over my dismay.
Rhys would love me right now, I think dryly.
My Omega gives a forlorn sigh. She’s still bummed the venomous alpha didn’t appear at the dinner table two hours ago.
None of them did. Even after Dane and I spent half the morning lying around, stuffing our faces.
While we ate, I carefully plucked details out of him. How he came to be part of this pack. The way he grew up in a home for children and never had any other family. What it felt like to lurk in shadows behind the notorious Blackwoods.
I thought, after hearing all of that, that maybe we might be… bonding. Or something. But then he explained he had “work” to do tonight and refused to tell me what that entailed. It definitely changed the mood between us, though, and he left soon after, pointedly strapping his mask back into place.
His departure was a chilling reminder—I don’t really know these men or what they do. And I may never be able to trust any of them.
Not even my big man.
My Omega whines at that, but I shush her. She only whimpers louder, flashing a sulky image from dinner.
Okay, so, fine. Eating alone at that big table was slightly humiliating. I knew Cillian and Dane wouldn’t be there; I’m not sure why I expected Rhys to show up.
Of course he took the opportunity to humiliate me. Nothing between us changed last night or this afternoon, aside from me proving I could handle his depraved, delicious brand of domination. And make our deal “worth his while.”
The prick.
He can absolutely never find out how much I like that book he recommended…
Cillian’s car pulled up thirty minutes after I abandoned my lonely meal. He must have had Coggins place this outfit on my bed while I was pushing peas around my priceless plate.
Of course he also had the butler leave out my wedding ring.
And a note.
Eight p.m., the slashing scrawl read. Meet me in the ballroom, Mrs. Blackwood.
I debated chucking the entire thing into my fireplace. Five-carat diamond, new tutu, and all.
But Rhys’s hauntingly lovely violin had finally stopped. And the sudden silence that pressed all around me was worse than any other sort of torture.
Knock twice if you’re okay, Rosie.
I couldn’t stomach sitting in my room one minute longer. Eight hours of wondering where Dane was and if Rhys’s music had anything to do with me—starting last night, stopping after this evening—was enough. I refused to sit around waiting for either to come back.
So here I am.
Dressed like the prima ballerina I used to want to be.
Wearing the world’s most beautiful, hateful ring.
Walking into the belly of the beasts.
Well. One of them, anyway.
Fiona hovers at the base of the grand foyer staircase. Her feather duster pauses when she notes my attire, a startled sound of bemusement greeting me.
I can’t even blame her. I look ridiculous.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I glower. “Where is he?”
She titters again, pointing to the archway on my left. I march through it, eating up the rounded hallway to get to the light at the end.
I stop short, arrested on the threshold. My anger dissipates.
Oh my…
I’ve never seen such a beautiful room. Every shade of opulence, with gilded edges of silver and gold. The mixed metals cover the walls, shimmering foil wallpaper patinated to resemble the mercury glass laid into the dozens of arches carved along curving walls.
Flawless black marble shines underfoot, shot with streaks of gold and silver-white. The enormous dome above it matches the one in the library—rose, amethyst, and dark, smoky blue.
But none of those things are the reason I can’t breathe.
No.
That would be the hundreds of candles flickering on the floor.
And the shirtless man standing in the middle of it.
I don’t recognize Cillian at first.
For one, he’s backlit by what feels like a thousand individual flickers. And secondly, he’s half-naked. Standing loosely, holding a glass of amber liquor by the tips of his fingers… wearing sweatpants?
Correction: absolutely ruining sweatpants for all other men.
Soft charcoal fabric hangs on his hips, showing off the chiseled lines carved into his pelvis. Tight rows of abdominal muscles ripple in the low light. A line of dark hair trails from his navel to the low-slung waistband, balancing the small smattering between his impressive pecs.
Truly, there isn’t one damn thing wrong with him. His body is perfectly proportioned. Elegant and strong. Cut like a precious stone, polished to shine. Molded into the sort of masculine beauty that makes a masterpiece.
And he’s wearing sweatpants.
Okay, I coach internally. We can handle this. We do not find our husband attractive. That cannot happen. So…
My Omega blinks owlishly, waiting for me to develop some grand plan. But, really, is there any defense against the way those loose cotton pants cling to the outline of Cillian’s semi-hard cock?
I don’t think so.
I try anyway, letting my focus roam over his face. Searching for things to dislike.
Unlike Rhys’s sharp angelic beauty or Dane’s rugged looks, Cillian has the sort of features that are easy to forget. Solid and square. Almost too handsome, I decide—he gives the impression he could have stepped off any billboard. Out of any rom-com.
He doesn’t have Rhys’s shock of white-blond hair or Dane’s scars. I decide not to like that. I bet it makes it easier for him to be shady, operate under the radar.
If anyone were ever asked to describe my husband, what would they say? The one who’s too handsome for words? An absolutely perfect specimen? The guy with a soul as dark as his hair, his suits, and his spiced scent?
But, shit. I am screwed.
Because as I look longer, I do notice some flaws. Charming ones.
The thin line sliced through the very tip of his left eyebrow. A tiny indentation denting the top of his right cheek. The way his five-o’clock shadow seems thicker on the sides of his jaw than it does on his chin. Sparse threads of silver woven into the glossy black hair at either temple.
Our gazes meet—and I see the one thing that will always set him apart. The wolf living in his icy eyes.
Did I dare say he looked forgettable?
The rest of his face seems impassive, but the blue fire in his irises is a beast all its own. Razing that apathy to ash. Climbing up his gaze in slow, seething licks.
There’s power there, but weakness, too. A piece that sees me and sets itself on fire.
Why?
Does he hate me that much?
Is all of this just another way to break me? Take the thing I once loved and make a mockery of it? Here? In this beautiful room?
Maybe he chose it on purpose. Something else he gets to ruin for me when he rips this leotard from my body and forces me into whatever compromising position he’s conjured up.
I banish the tears that sting the bridge of my nose, stepping over the threshold with my head held high. Repeating the vow I made to myself on our wedding day. He can have anything he thinks he wants. Because he’ll never have me.
But we’re here, my Omega whispers. He’s winning.
Cillian seems to echo that sentiment. The corner of his mouth kicks up as he glances down at the outfit he chose. And the ring on my finger.
This bastard.
He’s a monster.
A liar.
A thief.
My husband.
And hell-bent on making sure I know it.