Chapter 49
forty-nine
brIAR
Briar
I assume the cocktail dress on my bed means we have a date tonight?
You could *ask* you know
Cillian
Not my style, Mrs. Blackwood.
Besides, you have more than one suspect when it comes to leaving you mysterious gifts.
Briar
So it wasn’t you?
Cillian?
I stg I can *hear* your evil chuckle all the way from Manhattan.
Prick.
Cillian
I miss you too, rosebud.
When I found tonight’s outfit on my bed, I assumed my husband was up to his usual devilish tricks.
So imagine my surprise when I step into the foyer, smoothing the short skirt of the shiny, crimson slip-dress over my hips, and find Rhys standing at the bottom of the grand staircase.
He looks impeccable, wearing a close-cut red suit so dark it’s almost black.
Of the three alphas, he definitely has the most flair for fashion.
The thin silver chain connecting his black silk tie and the dagger pin on his jacket pocket is evidence of that.
Combined with his onyx shirt, white-blond hair, and ghostly eyes… the combination is deadly.
For a moment, I miss the neutralizers that have finally worn off. Because—damn it all to hell—isn’t Rhys pretty enough without the tantalizing swirl of eucalyptus that washes over me?
The scent hits and I nearly miss a stair. Rhys seems oblivious, though. His pale throat bobs while his brows crouch over his sea-glass gaze, watching me with a blend of predatory interest and… nerves?
His cool essence definitely has a bit of an edge to it. Not to mention the way he fidgets with his cufflinks.
I smirk at him, finally stepping onto the main floor. “What? You picked this dress, not me, venom.”
He glowers mildly before clearing his throat, eyes dropping to his shiny black shoes. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually come down,” he mutters. “No one would blame you for changing your mind.”
I open my mouth to tell him I didn’t do it for him—that I thought this ensemble was Cillian’s doing. But my Omega nudges me hard.
Be nice, she hisses.
I roll my eyes internally. Or what?
Or he might get even more discouraged, she argues, knocking me back a bit. Look at him.
She guides my focus back to the alpha’s face, pointing out the tension in his jaw and worry lining his eyes. His posture, too. Usually, Rhys has an indolent sort of charm to him—but tonight he looks all wrong. Too rigid and careful.
God, why does that bother me?
I toss my hair back and smile to myself when his gaze catches on the black-crystal combs I twisted into the sides of my semi-updo. Instead of taunting him, I try for a casual tone.
“I didn’t change my mind. Although, if you take me back to that uppity-as-fuck restaurant Cillian dragged me to after our ‘wedding’”—I throw up agitated air quotes, glaring flatly—“I will stab you. Again. Probably with the wrong fork.”
Rhys actually laughs, a low strained sound that shimmers with the barest hint of relief. “Just as well,” he agrees, offering me his arm. “I have a different surprise in mind.”
For all the things I’m not sure I’ll forgive Rhys for, this one might take the cake.
Because how am I supposed to keep him at arm’s length after this?
The performing arts center always looks best all lit up for an evening show. Surrounded by the bustling city, but set far enough from the main road to give it a stately air.
The marquee outside proudly proclaims the season’s premiere.
Tonight.
Sleeping Beauty.
Rhys tosses the keys of his matte-black Bugatti to the valet, then rounds the car with the sort of long, confident strides that make my stomach flutter. Why does he have to look so damn debonaire, buttoning his jacket with a practiced flick of his hand? Almost as if he’s done this a thousand times…
How is that so hot?
And why in God’s name does the idea of him charming other women make me jealous?
It’s possible I’ve cracked. Perhaps book shopping with Dane, publicly choosing him over an escape hatch, and letting the big man get me off in the back of the store broke my brain. Or at the very least scrambled it.
Because as Rhys opens my door and offers a gentlemanly hand, a sudden rush of desire swirls my thoughts into a dizzy jumble. A thread of dark cherry perfume winds into the air and the ice-blond alpha smirks, though his eyes soften simultaneously.
His mouth kicks into a devious smile when my incredulous gaze darts to the marquee a second time. “Come on, viper. I can’t show you off from the car. And we have our own box.”
The feel of our fingers sliding together sends an electric charge down my arm. I play it off, shaking my hair over my shoulder to hide a shiver as a wave of tart-and-sweet perfume follows me out of the car.
To my surprise, Rhys doesn’t act too cool to care. In fact, tonight, his usual arrogance is more like an accessory than a suit of armor.
Instead of ignoring my scent, he uses my hand to twirl me into his body, catching me close and bending to rub a scent-mark over my bare shoulder.
Oh.
He’s smooth.
And utterly devastating when he flashes a small, almost shy version of his crooked grin. “You know you’re fucking gorgeous, right?” he mumbles. “I don’t need to keep saying it?”
I guide his hand at my hip to my hidden thigh garter—and my favorite switchblade. “You will if you know what’s good for you,” I threaten.
Rhys’s eyes spark as he traces the lace and metal. His dark smirk reappears, but something solid and solemn settles there. “Not one of my strengths, I’m afraid.”
It’s an apology. One of a dozen, at this point. Every time we’ve spoken since Saturday night, he’s directly and indirectly told me how sorry he is for how he treated me.
I believe him, but I can’t shake the part of me that’s hurt by the constant litany of regret. I wasn’t worthy of them, before… but now I am? The same way he hated my guts until the moment he found out I was his mate?
My stomach clenches, but my Omega refuses to let go of his hand. I glare at her internally; she pretends to be oblivious.
Brat, I snipe.
Gee, I wonder where I learned that, she snaps back.
Bitch, I amend.
Rhys mistakes my scowl for disapproval. He rubs the back of his neck, darting a sideways glance at the theater. “I knew this was a gamble,” he mutters. “But I figured you might miss dancing the same way I missed playing music. I thought—”
He chokes himself off, eerie aqua eyes flickering over my expression before he forces a swallow and admits, “You gave that back to me. So I wanted to give this back to you.”
The moment is surreal—standing on a sidewalk, with the performing arts center lighting the horizon. Surrounded by a hundred couples in formal wear. Staring up at the alpha who hated me.
My mate.
He’s sorry, but he’s not just trying to get me to forgive him. He’s trying to make it up to me, any way he can.
And this time, when our fingers lace tighter? It isn’t for anyone but myself.