Chapter Eleven #4
To be honest, after earning a reaction the first time—from a pair of jet-black joggers with white stripes up the side—I decided to pair trousers with tops that didn’t go together, just to get a rise out of him.
The aubergine knitted sweater and three-quarter-length shorts I was gearing up to show off next were no exception.
“Absolutely not,” he asserted before I even managed to strut out of the stall fully.
“It’s not up for debate,” I clapped back. It was my turn to be smug. “You promised.”
“You’re being a brat.”
Maybe.
“Pfft, I’m only messing with you.” Leaning backward, I snatched up another pair of wide-leg jeans that clashed with the jumper even more, trying my best to keep my tone level. “I’d wear it with these instead.”
His nostrils flared. “I can’t fathom why, with all of the options at your disposal, you would choose outfits that drown you?” he said, sounding peeved. “You have desirable assets: long legs, angular shoulders, a trim waist. Why not accentuate them?”
“I . . .” His compliments caught me off guard, and my arm lowered. “They’re comfy.”
“At least you’re aware of the colours that work with your complexion,” he added, ignoring me. “Anything bright would wash you out.”
“Oh! Just wait until you see the neon-blue chinos I picked out,” I teased, feigning excitement. “You’ll love them!”
His resounding snarl was music to my ears as I sashayed back into the cubicle.
Unfortunately, even the novelty of winding him up wore off, eventually.
After what felt like a hundred years of being dressed up like a doll, I was tired and cranky.
My pile had been whittled down significantly, but since the seamstress, Pauline, had shown up—on her day off, apparently—I’d suggested we switch to the alterations, just to get them out of the way.
Caine had agreed, shockingly. Most likely because he was done guessing what I’d pull out of my pile next.
“Everything you chose is purposely ill-fitting, so they won’t need adjustments,” he’d said, disdain dripping off every syllable, though his face had remained impassive.
Thankfully, we were onto the last suit; any more and I’d have gone batshit.
It was a loop of the same motions—off and on, lift leg, feed arms through sleeves—and it had become monotonous fast. To make it worse, now that I was aggravated, my body had stopped cooperating.
I’d tripped over my feet more than once, and got a shirt stuck on my head just to heighten the annoyance.
My skin was raw, and though we were being supplied with drinks and snacks, I was a bit light-headed.
“Are we done?” I asked, tone clipped, not bothering to suppress my irritation as Pauline finished pinning the waistband of the grey suit trousers I was modelling.
My question and ire wasn’t directed at her, she was the sweetest woman I’d ever met, but these pants were the exact same style and size as the last pair, so why the hell was I having to endure the same rigmarole twice?
“Twirl for me,” Caine instructed, and I sent him a scathing frown, my feet rooted to the platform, much to his restrained amusement. He inspected the small heap beside him. “There’s one more. From your pile.”
“If I shove it up your arse, there’ll be none.”
Pauline dropped her pin, and unironically, I heard it hitting the marble floor.
Clarice shifted on her feet, while James and Olivia froze mid-task, so still I suspected they’d stopped breathing.
No doubt they were all strangers to the concept of an omega sassing their Alpha in public, considering the rank of their clientele.
Within those circles, omegas were raised to act with the utmost respect toward their Alphas, to be proper and refrain from behaviour that might cause embarrassment or undermine their authority. Well, if that was the expectation, they’d be sorely disappointed.
I wasn’t without basic manners, my grandma had made sure of it, even instilling the value in me of honouring my elders.
But deferring to an Alpha just because society was determined to cling to the notion of omegas being inferior?
Absolutely not. They could all get fucked with those medieval ideals.
Besides, if the—very muted—chuffed look Caine was sporting was anything to go by, he enjoyed it immensely.
So technically, I was doing exactly what they wanted and being compliant with his every whim.
Perfect omega right here.
“Are you not having fun, my sweet, tolerant omega?” he taunted, and I scoffed harshly in return.
“I’m not yours yet.”
Zainab’s eyes bulged, and it took everything in me not to snort. Caine’s expression, his gaze, branched into something sharklike—sharp, menacing, and . . . excited? It made my insides feel funny.
“Is that a challenge?”
“Make me try on one more thing, and we’ll find out.”
He called my bluff, reaching for the last item. I caught the smile tugging at my lips before it could properly materialise. “What’s this?” He unfolded the piece and raised it for me to see.
I frowned.
It was a full-length black dress with a corset top and a slit up one side of the skirt. Not something I’d picked out. Not consciously, at least. “You were rushing me,” I griped. “I must have picked it up by mistake. Thank fuck for that. I’m going to—”
“Try it on.”
I paused with one foot on the floor, the other still on the pedestal, gaping at him in disbelief. “But I didn’t—”
“Try. It. On.”
It was my default to argue against every word to leave his mouth.
It even crossed my mind to throw the cursed thing at his face and march out of here, pins and all, but we’d already been at this longer than I’d have liked, so I bit my tongue.
I missed Minnie, my feet hurt, and Caine possessed the audacity to keep me here overnight just to prove a point.
The odds were stacked against me, and the sooner I complied, the quicker I’d be back to rarely seeing his callous face.
With a growl, I snatched the dress out of his hand and stormed back into the cubicle, wrenching the velvet drape shut.
Feet shuffled outside the stall as if debating what to do.
It was probably Pauline wanting to help me worm out of the pinned garments without scratching myself, but the noise stilled as if something—or someone—had changed her mind.
I managed on my own, carefully peeling the trousers off my legs and laying them out on the armchair in the corner.
It was like manipulating fluid, dragging the dress up my legs and over my torso.
It was unbelievably soft, sleek and light as paper, naturally clinging to all the right places.
The pleated bust was flat, so it sat flush against my chest. It was a bit of a faff to zip up, but luckily it was at the side instead of the back, so I didn’t have to call for assistance.
I just stuck out my tongue, concentrated, and reshuffled every section until it sat where it was supposed to be.
I didn’t need to study myself in the mirror to know it fit like a glove, and ignoring my initial protests, it was actually gorgeous.
The material at the top of the skirt was pinched to one side of the bodice’s hem, creating a waterfall effect that exposed my leg through the perfectly situated gap.
It was sleeveless—displaying all my tattoos—except for the two straps that framed my biceps, adding to the effortlessly romantic style.
I felt . . . pretty. No, pretty wasn’t the right word.
Sexy was more like it. A descriptor I’d never really used for myself before.
There would be no point buying it as I probably wouldn’t wear it—not for any reason other than it wasn’t my usual vibe—but still.
I’d never had the opportunity to try on anything like it, and I was surprised at how good it made me feel.
How it felt made for me.
“Come on, then, let me see it,” an impatient voice rumbled from outside. My fingers flexed, my heart picking up pace, but I squared my shoulders and whipped the curtain to the side, not giving myself a chance to hesitate.
I stepped out of the changing room and fanned the skirt to the side for maximum dramatic flair.
For a while, I just zoned in on the tasselled edges of the Persian rug, my hands itching to tangle in the dress’s satin material to centre my discomfort.
But when the silence stretched, I couldn’t stop myself from peering up.
I regretted it instantly.
All eyes were fixed on me. Pauline seemed excited, Olivia’s jaw was on the floor, Raegen nodded, subtly impressed, and Caine .
. . he eyed me from head to toe, his expression unreadable—the way it often was.
My cheeks heated under the intensity of his gaze.
Was this a humiliation tactic? It had to be.
Punishment for back-chatting him in front of an audience.
My arms rose defensively, ready to hide myself from his view, though the action seemed to snap him out of whatever was going on in his head.
He stood in one fluid motion, and prowled forward.
A predatory prowl.
“Everyone out,” he demanded, his tone calmer than the air around us felt, and without hesitation the staff filtered out of the dressing room, Brian and Raegan following last.
I swallowed as Caine advanced, lifting my chin, determined to stand my ground, but the weight of his looming figure towering above me had my resolve fraying at the edges.
The hungry look in his eye made my knees wobble.
Despite my best intentions, I yelped as he gripped my bicep and spun me around, forcing me to brace both hands against the mirror to stop myself from colliding face first with the glass. I opened my mouth to curse him for his roughness, but he spoke first.
Voice gruff and rumbly.
“Well, aren’t you a sight?” His hands came to my hips, where the dress cinched, and he dipped down, brushing his nose over my scent gland, inhaling deeply. His eye was fixed on our reflection, observing my every reaction.