Chapter 33
thirty-three
brIAR
Maybe it’s my years of experience as a literal fucking captive, but it hasn’t taken long for me to learn who’s coming into my room based on the way they approach it.
Fiona will give three quiet taps, Louis two. Coggins usually clears his throat first.
I know it’s Dane when I don’t hear footsteps before the solid raps. And Rhys tends to mutter curses before his fist even hits the door, giving himself away with some sort of taunt or jeer… though he’s only come down here twice, both times because Cillian forced him.
Dane showed up for breakfast this morning, arriving with a blush on his face and a rolling cart full of food. Today’s choices were different than yesterday’s, and it pinched some of the air from my lungs to think of him brainstorming new foods for me to try. Especially after last night.
He didn’t stay, though, and seemed to have a hard time looking me in the eye before his silent footsteps carried him back to his room.
Which means the smooth, measured footsteps now aimed at my door—and the four knocks I don’t recognize—must belong to my husband.
I watch my reflection freeze in the floor-length mirror, a dark red lipstick hovering halfway to my mouth. My ruby gown slides around my legs, the thigh-high slit parting as I spin to the side, scowling warily. “What?”
Cillian chuckles, the sound muffled by the door. “I have something for you. May I come in?”
I only say yes so I can tell his arrogant ass where to shove whatever he’s brought me. But the second he sweeps into the room, all the oxygen in my body evaporates.
Good. Fucking. Night.
A tuxedo on Cillian is, quite simply, devastating. The white collar of his shirt makes his skin seem more golden; the spotless dark fabric matches the thick hair combed back on his crown. It gleams subtly under my bedroom’s dim lights, along with his otherworldly blue eyes.
The devil looks good in Armani.
My spine tingles as perfume slips into the air. I pray he can’t sense it or see the way my spine straightens. But the slight quirk on his stern lips reminds me: the devil doesn’t answer prayers.
He does, however, come bearing gifts.
The flat leather box in Cillian’s hands looks as expensive as he does. I track it with suspicious eyes as he approaches, coming to stand close behind me.
My Omega pants, whining shrilly. Can’t we please just let him—
I start to say, No, we can’t, absolutely not, but…
Our gazes meet in the mirror’s reflection. And his is soft.
“You look enchanting.”
I’ve only heard him this sincere one other time. The words sift through my mind while I sink into his ice-blue stare. I only wanted to see you dance again, Briar.
He meant that. And he means his current compliment just as much.
Why? Has he finally decided to try to make things right between us? Or is this all some new manipulation?
There’s only one way to find out. So, I force a raspy whisper. “Thank you.”
Some strange magnetism sucks up the air between us. Cillian comes closer and I find myself leaning back, drawn to his broad, dark silhouette. Neither of us looks away from the picture we make—Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood. An impossibly beautiful demon… and his bride.
I shouldn’t like it.
Not even a little bit.
It shouldn’t make it harder for me to breathe or send a warm prickle to the space between my hips.
But tell that to my Omega.
He took me, I remind her. And myself. We hate him.
For the first time ever, she isn’t nodding along. I feel her hesitance, holding a pivotal piece of myself back.
Because she doesn’t hate him.
She might even want him.
I know she can’t help it. Longing for an alpha’s care and approval is what makes omegas tick. But she was all I had left. My only loyal friend.
A deep stab of betrayal hits my heart, forcing my eyes from the mirror to the floor. I’m sorry, she whispers.
It’s not your fault. I turn my head, hoping Cillian won’t see the tears I blink back. Outside, the rosebushes obscuring my view have formed a hundred tiny buds. The white and red florets quiver, their thorns casting ominous shadows against the balcony floor.
Cillian distracts me, reaching around my body to present the jewelry box in his hand. “This is for you.”
I start to shake my head. Push it away.
But his thumb flips the lid open.
“Oh my—” The words fall from my lips before I can help it. Cillian tilts the box, letting light hit the black diamonds set into the sides of the heart-shaped gold… padlock?
Entranced, I watch the small, iridescent rows glitter and reach for them without meaning to, dragging my fingertip from the shimmering stones to the beveled edge of the keyhole carved into its center.
It’s a lock, I think, strangely dizzy. And a chain?
Yes, in fact; the heart-shaped lock is nestled into the velvet case and surrounded by a gleaming gold curb chain with a ring on either end. One is a larger O-ring, clearly intended to have the chain fed through it, and the other is smaller. The perfect size for the shackle of the lock.
My mind races as I mentally snap the piece together, realizing it’s… a collar. With a literal lock.
Realizing… I love it.
“Just for tonight,” Cillian murmurs. “To show our enemies who you belong to. If you’ll allow it, Mrs. Blackwood.”
I feel light-headed—and he isn’t really asking for my permission, is he? I tell myself no. Because it’s the only excuse I can give for the dazed nod he receives in reply.
His second hand joins the first, arms brushing my sides as he removes the necklace from the box and discards the case on my vanity.
Large hands lift the heavy chain to my throat, settling the shiny links in the exact configuration I pictured—a tight loop around the base of my throat, with the smaller ring fed through the large one. It rests against my sternum, waiting for the lock that will anchor it in place.
“This only has one key,” Cillian says, producing the gold sliver from his pocket. “But it belongs to me.”
Sensation streaks down my spine—a potent, unholy blend of fear and arousal that leaves my panties soaked with slick. Cillian snaps the pendant’s shackle through the small ring, resting the diamond-encrusted heart between my breasts.
I track his gaze in the vanity’s mirror. Fanatical. On fire. So hot, I swear it will heat the lock he’s staring at and burn a heart-shaped brand into my chest.
Then, for the first time since our wedding day, Cillian touches me.
Warm fingertips skim my collarbone, tracing the chain until his hands rest over the sides of my neck. Brushing my throbbing pulse points as my heart flips, pumping hot and thick through my tingling veins.
“Lovely,” my husband says, transfixed on the reflection of my breasts in the mirror. “I thought the black diamonds would stand out nicely against your complexion. I was right.”
His touch lingers, sliding to my bare shoulders. He turns his head, gazing down at my skin under his hands. Unreadable intensity swirls in his eyes.
“I swore I wouldn’t touch you until you asked me to,” he husks. “But—in case you haven’t figured it out yet—I’m not a very good man.”
I’m less and less sure what kind of man he is, actually. But when sheer, animalistic need flares over his features, I know one thing: he’s dangerous.
And part of me likes it.
The same way I do with Dane… and Rhys.
I try to swallow the sound that climbs my throat, but Cillian feels it vibrate in my vocal cords. A whimper. Or even a whine.
He suddenly moves, snapping his hand up to hold my jaw as he crashes his lips into mine.
He never kissed me, on the altar. When the priest told him he could, he simply brushed his lips over my cheek.
Now I know why.
The pent-up passion he pours from his mouth into mine is the sort of thing that would set a church on fire. Slick heat and gliding tongues and a growled groan that plunders all on its own.
I melt and moan, pointed nails clawing for purchase, digging into his tuxedo-clad arms. He bites my lower lip, the harsh sting enough to distract me when his free hand slides between my breasts to fist the locket. And pulls.
I gasp, trying to suck air into my throat, but the solid chain is too tight for anything more than the barest taste of oxygen. Pure need spirals through my core, pooling in my pussy with a heavy, heated pulse. My hands start to skim lower. Wanting—needing—him. But—
The collar around my neck constricts again. The barest edge of pain snaps me back into my body long enough to tear myself away, dragging labored breaths past the gold chain… and the weight of Cillian’s focus.
“Tonight,” he starts, dominance personified, “you will not touch me and you will not look at me unless I tell you to.”
It’s a bark; I have no choice but to obey, baring my teeth in a snarl as I rip my hands from his arms.
Asshole.
With my eyes averted, I can’t see his face as Cillian heaves out a deep breath. Strong fingers slowly release my jaw and the lock pendant as he takes half a step back. Lingering just long enough to softly brush his lips over my cheek.
He disappears as quickly as he came, leaving me with stupid tears in my eyes and the imprint of his chain along the base of my throat.
Yet as I stare at the open doorway, I can’t help but feel the echo of my husband’s parting kiss.
And the way it felt like an apology.