Chapter 56
chapter
fifty-six
“On a scale of one to Bianca Censori, how naked do I look?”
Emma and her sister-in-law, Meg, both cast me dubiously amused glances. “You look hot ,” Emma chimes.
Meg flashes a perfect smile, flipping her wavy blonde lob over the thin straps of her bubblegum-pink evening gown. Mischief lights her crystal irises. “A seven?”
Her bestie, Remi, floats closer and pats my bare arm. “Don’t listen to her, Bridget,” the sweet, honey-scented omega hums. She glances at the mirror across from us and adjusts the bust of her teal column gown, pinching the silk until it stays up.
She’s stuffed the cups with boob-enhancers, but I still look like a porn star beside her. Thankfully, my girls are safely supported by this dress’s butter-yellow corset.
The color may be light enough to give the impression of nudity from far away, but Adrian special-ordered the piece from a designer in Paris—and, up close, thousands of pearls line every delicate drape of lace-and-satin.
It’s a piece of art, really. I still can’t believe he had it commissioned .
Weeks ago.
Just in case , he’d explained with a heated smirk. Then proceeded to tell me he’d also gotten together with my friends’ pack alphas and arranged this decadent day of primping before the gala.
Deep down, I just know he chose this salon—the one my sister and mother used for years. The nicest place in town for this sort of thing.
And one I was forbidden to patronize, lest I embarrass Alicia.
Remi senses the way my scent sours and rubs a soothing hand over my exposed upper back, sweeping aside the red curls styled in a half-updo.
Her own black ringlets sit piled high in an artful bun, with two loosely coiled tendrils framing her clear golden-brown complexion and gorgeous hazel-blue eyes.
Before she can offer more reassurance, her sister saunters out of the dressing room, adjusting her own boobs as she glides on six-inch heels.
I swear, the girl could run a marathon in those things.
Serena flicks a curtain of glossy black hair back, turning to check herself out in another mirror. Layers of lavender tulle swish around her legs—the fabric so thin, the outlines of her legs are fully visible under the full skirt. And strategic triangles had to be sewn into the halter portion.
She pouts at her reflection, rolling her eyes. “Goddamn Tristan. I can’t be a princess and a slut at the same time .” She flashes the green version of her twin’s hazels at me, smiling conspiratorially. “I’m happy to be either, but would it have killed him to pick a lane?”
Emma laughs, fluffing out her skirts. “Zane definitely went full-on royal for mine. I asked him if I could wear my fuzzy socks under it, but he said no.”
She does look like an extra from Bridgerton, wearing a stiff A-line gown made of textured seafoam-colored fabric. With the small tiara braided into her wavy blonde hair, it’s very elegant.
Serena finishes fussing with her mascara and drops a swift glance at my hands. Oh shit.
Of my friends, Serena Thorne is definitely the most observant. Her brows lift. “Don’t you want to wear your ring, Bridge?”
Ummmmmm…. well….
I look at my bare finger, remembering how Dante plucked the ring right off it. Sent the damn thing sailing into the sunset. Like it—and our whole stupid deal—meant nothing.
Because I meant everything.
A small smile tilts my lips. “Guess I left it at home. Oh well.”
She quirks her brow higher, but she doesn’t question me. Likely because my perfume has brightened at the memory of my alphas taking me on King Stadium’s home plate.
Grand Slam indeed .
Sensing the swell of my own perfume is still new for me. I’m used to being acutely aware of its existence… but not the specific smell. For one thing, it’s never been quite this potent or frequent before. And, secondly, I’ve started wearing less de-scenter in general.
Part of it might be my heat coming next week, I suppose. And maybe a little bit the fact that all four alphas living my house groan like I’m torturing them every time the lemony aroma spikes.
Either way, it’s been different for the last couple of days. Almost… sweet ?
I shake the silly, hopeful thought from my mind and reach for my special de-scenting spray. Adrian bought it for me after our spa trip, explaining that it was a less powerful brand. Because, in his words, if I “insist” on “hiding my perfection,” he requests I don’t do it so completely.
I bite back a grin at the memory. My phone buzzes in my other palm. Our group chat— Bridget’s Ball Boys .
Dante
Incoming, querida.
*attached image*
I gasp, pressing the very nude, very hard picture to my chest. By the time I chance another peek, the guys have already gone off on their packmate.
Colt
Dante GODDAMN IT
Jesse
Seriously?
Right in front of my tux?
Adrian
Do you not have a side chat to send these pictures in like the rest of us?
Dante
Boss is sending our omega dick pics, too??
Bridget
You all* send me dick pics.
More than once a day, since you’ve been gone.
I had to unpair my phone from my laptop
Jesse
Maybe we should make a Dropbox.
Colt
For our dicks?
Dante
A Dickbox
Bridget
Or you could just stop sending me pictures of your penises
Dante
No can do, cupcake.
I’ve been hard since Thursday.
48 hours is wayyyyy too long.
My lips quirk higher. They played their first “away” game this week. It was only about four hours away, in South Florida, but they’ve all expressed their deep displeasure about it.
Even Adrian. Within six hours of their departure on Thursday morning, he had created a whole packet for me—their full season schedule, every travel game, the specs of their team jet, which hotels they would stay in, how it all fits with the end of my semester, summer break, and the following school year.
It took me a few pages to realize what all his careful planning really was: an invitation.
A request .
Come with us , it said. Be with us .
And the schedule I sent back, showing nearly every summer away stretch blocked out on my calendar…
I suppose that was me saying yes .
Emma notices my expression and beams. “I’m really glad you’re letting them stay with you,” she murmurs, keeping her voice low for privacy. “Are you excited?”
About my heat? I nearly snort. Historically, losing my ability to take care of myself for a week has been a living nightmare. It never occurred to me that I could get excited about it.
But as I glance around at all the girls—all glowing, with healed bond marks and true happiness in their expressions…
My own mouth curves into a bemused smile. “Yeah, I think maybe I am.”