Chapter 35
thirty-five
brIAR
For all the days I spent trapped in my father’s house, I never expected socializing to be dull.
Part of that is the event itself. A lavish cocktail party that reminds me of the donor dinners the ballet used to subject me to, always with my father “escorting” me.
It’s odd, being at one of these functions without him. In fact, the whole situation with him is odd in general. I didn’t think much of not hearing from him when I was newly married… but it’s been weeks.
Was I seriously that disposable to the man? He got his money and dropped me into this mess and I’ll just never hear from him again?
It seems so. Surely, if he were going to come around, he’d be here tonight.
There’s a lot of wealth in this room. Plenty of opportunities for him to promote his research to a captive audience.
After all, there’s never a better group to scam than a bunch of rich people, stuffed into some random mansion, drunkenly eating salmon puffs as if they’re actually edible.
As pissed as I am about his lack of concern, I can’t say I’m disappointed not to see my father here. I have enough alpha bullshit to deal with as it is.
Namely, trying to please my “husband.”
When Cillian told me about this affair, I expected, well, expectations. Surely, he wanted me glued to his side so he could show off their pack’s new omega? It seemed likely, given the pains he took to get everyone over here. Not to mention this dress.
But upstairs, he essentially told me to ignore him. Then, once guests started to arrive, he barely introduced me to anyone. The most I got was a bland expression, the casual wave of his hand when he referenced me.
He didn’t even use my name. Just some curt version of, “And this is our omega,” before he welcomed them in and directed them to the nearest bar.
Once all the guests had gotten an eyeful of my tuxedoed alphas—and a perfunctory introduction to me—Cillian whispered a simple reminder about our deal and his terms.
As if I’d forget I’m not allowed to step foot outside or breathe a word of our arrangement.
Lucky for my husband, I’m an expert at playing the part of a pretty doll. I carefully blew out my hair and paired the corseted dress with deadly Louboutins, knowing the thigh-high slit in the slinky silk would show the shoes off.
And make it impossible for me to run away.
For Violet, I tell myself, forcing a bland smile when a waitress hands me a glass of wine the same color as my dress. I’m doing this for her.
Three servings later, I realize it’s been months since I’ve had anything to drink without food and decide to drift toward the back doors of the manor. I may not be allowed to walk out, but I figure I can at least taste some fresh air for a few moments.
The ballroom is so different tonight. Instead of a thousand flickers, wall sconces fill the room with warm light. The stained-glass dome reflects the glitter of the foiled walls as I skirt around the dancefloor positioned beneath it. My heart wrenches when I see couples turning circles together.
I hate that my head automatically swivels, looking for Dane. His back catches my eye, the broad expanse standing out in a huddle of similar tuxedos. Across from the big man, Rhys’s arresting gaze snags my focus.
Was he looking at me? After avoiding me all week?
I nod at the open French doors, then point to the floor, making it clear I don’t plan to actually step outside the manor—because God fucking forbid.
Whatever face I pull makes Rhys smirk. He gives a slight chin-jerk, raising his cocktail in a sarcastic salute.
Oddly, I feel better knowing at least one of them has tabs on me. It helps combat the swoop of dread that squirms in my stomach when I notice tipsy guests gossiping behind their cocktails.
“Isn’t that the new omega?”
“A bit young for them, isn’t she?”
“I heard she was a dancer. Although no one said what kind of dancer…”
Some older, more powerful alphas raise the fine hairs on the nape of my neck, but I keep my head high, training my gaze on the open doors along the curved back wall.
The secret-service–esque guards standing sentry tighten up at my approach.
I roll my eyes, leaning against one of the silver-gold walls, and swallow a gulp of wine.
From this vantage point, I spot a storm brewing beyond the bluff. My stomach seethes when a thin thread of lightning illuminates the dark horizon, outlining the enormous black clouds blurred into the night.
It also gives me a glimpse of the rose gardens I spend most mornings peering at through a hole between thorns. The enormous labyrinth of rosebushes shivers in the wind, some of the taller hedges swaying to reveal a Victorian-style gazebo at the center of the maze, enclosed with antique glass.
The cool breeze sweeps inside, bringing a chilly burst of dampness with it. I suck the fresh oxygen down anyway, unable to shake the odd warmth flushing my skin.
It doesn’t help, though. If anything, I feel hotter. A dizzy whirl tilts my thoughts as heat curls in my lungs. My mouth waters and tingles streak down my back, landing between my hips with a violent tweak.
What the hell?
Every breath just feels more impossible, like trying to jam cement down my throat. When did all these alphas start staring at me? Why do I suddenly sense all their scents at the same time? Is this a heat-spike?
I feel my body prime to perfume and panic. For a moment, I forget my husband’s stern instructions; my frantic eyes seek out Cillian automatically. He’s already looking at me. The same way several of the men near me are—but the intensity in his eyes looks less like interest and more like rage.
Fuck. Is he angry I looked at him? Or mad that I’m near the doors? Why?
It doesn’t really matter. Being this close to freedom is clearly going to my head; and the last thing I need is a public meltdown. Not when I’ve already survived two weeks here… and only have a handful left before I get what I want.
If I keep my husband happy.
Which seems less likely the longer I stand here.
Dropping my chin, I leave the back doors and the garden beyond, hurrying to the nearest hallway. There isn’t anyone there, thankfully, so nobody witnesses the way I practically collapse against the wall.
What is happening? I ask my Omega. Are you losing your shit on me?
She pants but gives her equivalent of a vehement head-shake. No. That wasn’t me. I—I don’t—
A voice interrupts her denial before she can finish.
“What do we have here?”
The man who appears from the opposite end of the hall is unfamiliar but gorgeous. Between his dark hair and mischievous gray-blue eyes, he’s exactly the sort of guy I would have gone after, if I’d ever been given the chance.
A toasted alpha scent washes over me—pleasant, but not insanely so. And a little chemically. Thank God.
Any concerns I had about my Omega swooning vanish in an instant. She’s… on guard? Wary and angry that someone is clearly trying to corner me.
“I think you mean ‘who,’” I fire back, squinting up at the stranger. “As in, who the hell are you? Or should I say, ‘what’ the hell are you?”
The alpha grins easily, a charming expression swallowing his handsome features. “Hmm. Grandfather mentioned you were a bit of scrapper, but I’m already impressed. Do you bite everyone’s head off on sight or am I special?”
He’s flirting, my Omega notes. Instead of interest, she sends me a jag of anxiety—something about this man has set off her instincts. And not in a good way.
I roll my eyes down his fit body and the two-thousand-dollar tux wrapped around it. “Well, you’re definitely not special,” I inform him. “So draw your own conclusions.”
He scoffs a laugh. A gleam sparkles deep in his eyes. “I’m Gideon. Your husband’s cousin.”
I ignore the hand he offers. “Ah. The rival pack. Tell me, have you found your own wife yet?”
Fuck, I need to rein it in. That last question veered dangerously close to sarcasm—and part of my deal with Cillian is maintaining appearances.
To make a point, I lift my left hand to my hair. Pretending to pet it absently, when really I’m hoping my engagement ring will catch the hall’s meager light.
Sure enough, Gideon’s eyes track the sparkler for a second. His grin sharpens. “My pack is very… particular.”
Run, my Omega begs. Scream.
I stomp her down. “Is your harassment as pointless as it seems?” I ask him, trying to sound bored. “If so, I’d appreciate you aiming it elsewhere.”
The humor falls off Gideon’s face so suddenly, my blood chills. He steps into my personal space, his handsome features shattering into a snarl. “I’m trying to help you,” he growls, backing me into the wall. “Tell you what kind of pack you married into.”
I’m not as stupid as this guy thinks I am—he has no reason to aid me and every reason to try to turn me against my pack. But before I can say as much, the image of Dane, standing in the shadows, blood smeared over his shirt, materializes in my mind.
Rhys, standing over me, refusing to tell me what held him back from taking advantage of our deal.
Cillian’s locked office door. Louis’s warning.
If you think you know him, I promise you do not. And if you think you can outsmart him, then you are nowhere near smart enough.
Even if this guy is just lying through his teeth… well, the best lies always contain a kernel of truth. Cillian taught me that.
“So tell me, then.” I shrug, acting like I couldn’t care less.
It works. “They source weapons for the scum of the earth. Aspiring warlords. Cartels. Organized crime families.” Gideon’s expression intensifies, his gaze glows victoriously. “Human traffickers.”
The breath punches out of my body. “As in—”
Gideon nods slowly. “Yeah.”
Horror grips my gut. My head shakes from side to side. “N-no. That’s not possible.”
Is it?
I figured they were selling gear to cartels and the mafia. But warlords? And people who sell other human beings?
People… like my father.
Cillian certainly had no issue doing business with him.
I try to swallow, but a hoarse lump gags me. Gideon has the audacity to give me a pitying look. “Seems very fucking possible to me. Since he bought you.”
Hot blood rushes through my ears, trickling down to my stomach. It clenches and heaves.
Oh God.
Is it possible the Blackwood beasts are worse than I imagined?