18. Brylee
18
brYLEE
“It’s not funny, you obnoxious dick!” I groan as my brother collapses backward on his couch, wheezing with mirth until tears come to his eyes.
“Oh, yes it fucking is,” he counters, looking better today than he did a week ago. He’s dressed in something more than pajamas today—though the baggy sweatshirt and loose sweatpants are nothing like the finery he used to wear before he got sick. And he’s got more color in his cheeks, and his hair isn’t limp, which may actually be from a product but whatever. I’m counting it.
“Caran!” I whine, throwing my head back against the seat I’m in and repeatedly banging it. “Make him stop. Make it all stop.”
Unfortunately, my brother’s omega gives me a helpless shrug from where he stands next to the kitchen table, one hip leaning against it. “Sorry, hon. There’s no outrunning a scent match. Trust me, I tried.”
My brother’s head immediately whips sideways to glare at him with narrowed eyes. “You did not.”
Caran gives a cheeky little shrug as he stirs his olive around in his martini. “Well, I pretended to.”
A smirk crosses my brother’s face, and I have absolutely zero doubt the two of them are remembering something naughty.
I level them both with my best glare. “First off. Gross. No sexy shit in front of me. And second off, where is my sympathy ? Mom is freaking selling me off to some goons. Meanwhile, I’m scent matched to crazy-pants wears-a-mask and his squad.”
Caran gives a loud groan. “You’re right. It’s so much drama.” He turns to my brother. “God, I wish we were in school again just so I could watch it all play out.”
My nails dig into his chair, leaving scratch marks behind on the leather, but I don’t even care. I kind of hope the crescent-shaped marks will be permanent. Caran and Teddie received this particular armchair from Caran’s brother—a beta I still have yet to meet—and seem to hold it in high regard.
Of course, my brother picks up on my fury and only piles on further. He arches a brow and leans toward me. “Wanna wear a camera for us? I’m sure Car has one lying around.”
Shoving myself up out of my seat, I huff at the two of them as I stomp toward the door. So much for family loyalty. Annoyed anger colors my tone as I yank open the door to the hallway and call back over my shoulder. “You better have those recipes and battle plan assignments ready for me tomorrow.”
Caran simply gives me a finger wave. Teddie, however, lifts his phone and snaps a picture of my pissed off expression as I flip him off.
“I mean it. Not doing this freaking homework alone,” I growl.
“See you tomorrow, honey,” Caran says before he takes a sip of his drink. “Bring us back all the tea.”
“Enjoy all the balls—I mean the ball!” Ted yells, like the dick of a sibling he is.
Slamming the door behind me, I stifle a scream as I fist my hands against my thighs. But then I hear someone walking on the stairs, and I’m forced to compose myself before I’m ready. Breathing deeply, I try to morph my expression to become as placid as a lake on a summer’s day.
Luckily, whoever is on the stairs doesn’t exit on this landing, because I’m pretty certain my face is short-circuiting like a malfunctioning robot right now.
Harper. I’m going to have to hide behind Harper at this ball and beg her forgiveness afterward.
Licking my lips nervously, I glance at my phone and realize that I have to hurry in order to make the hair and makeup appointments my mother scheduled for me.
I sigh as I press the number to call my roommate and then head downstairs. When she picks up, her voice is cheery and bright, completely unprepared for what I’m about to ask.
“Hey! I just finished getting my hair done at the salon. You want to do last minute touch-ups together?”
“Harper, I need a favor,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Sure! Need me to pick up some nail polish? I saw you had chipped a nail?—”
“No,” I cut her off even as I glance down at my nails, which are free from polish since I’ve been doing the dizzying back and forth transitions between Darling and Eros. I’ve even trimmed them shorter than normal so that Ted doesn’t stand out. But she’s right. I see a snag across the white tip of my thumbnail that’s in danger of peeling back. Dammit. I must have ripped it on that tree when I ran into Colter.
A vision of the huge man looming over slides into my mind unbidden, and my throat dries out just at the intensity of the memory.
“Bry? Bry?”
I realize I didn’t respond to her question. “Oh. Um. Sure. Clear please.”
“Bah, clear is boring.”
“Just clear.”
She issues a disapproving noise through her nose as I clear my throat. “Actually, there was something else I wanted to ask. A bigger favor.”
“Sounds juicy.”
Taking a deep breath and summoning all my trust that I’m making the right call, I make my request.
* * *
Orchestra music floats up the main staircase, and it’s like walking into a flower garden of sounds. Brilliant notes bloom all around as I grip my skirts in sweaty palms.
Around me, other girls rush down with awed titters and whispers, but I stay stuck on the top step. The rest of the omegas are scurrying toward the ballroom filled with alpha males as if it’s a Taylor Swift concert.
Me?
I’m dawdling and hoping, without much faith, that I can poke my head in and then dip out before anyone notices. I’m not sure that will be possible in this dress my mother picked for me. Peach silk with an overlay of tulle that’s studded with crystals, the sweetheart neckline is more revealing than I’d like it to be. And the three foot train on the skirt behind me is absolutely pretentious. Not to mention the diamond choker mother lent me from the royal jewels.
It’s going to be hard for me to move without tripping or freeing the girls accidentally and giving someone an eyeful. No, this dress is an artfully designed prison—and I’m sure that the queen chose it just for that reason.
It makes me want to kick something.
Harper appears next to me. Her hair is swept back into a French twist and clipped with pearls. A pure white mermaid gown accentuates her figure perfectly. If she wasn’t my roommate, a dash of jealousy might be pinging in my belly right now, but I just say, “You look great,” and I mean it.
“Thanks. You look like you might puke.”
“That’s the backup plan,” I tell her, and I’m only half joking. Because I don’t know how I’m going to deal with the overload of pheromones tonight. I don’t want any males, but my mother wouldn’t back down if a train was rushing right at her. She’d stand on the tracks and use sheer willpower and her cutting glare to make it stop.
Her machinations scare me, though I’m determined to escape them somehow.
But even worse is the fact that I’ve scent matched.
How am I supposed to escape from that?
Particularly after that surprise encounter with Colter showed me how weak I really am. I nearly jumped the huge masked man when he said he knew he was scary. His tone was so utterly sad. So broken. I wanted to wrap him up and…
Nope. Do not think about the things that went through your head, Bry. No slicking it up right now.
I’d hoped to get advice from my brother, but he was as useless and annoying as a zit on the ass.
“Ready to do this?” Harper slides her hand around my arm, linking us. But then she sniffs and leans back, nose scrunched. “Ew. I regret buying those ten bottles of perfume you asked for. Did you put them all on at once?”
“It’s the only armor I can wear right now,” I reply with a shrug.
“Well, it’s working. I can taste you.” She makes a face and sticks out her tongue.
I press my lips together in determination and blow out a breath. “Okay. Let’s go get this over with.”
“And maybe, possibly, find a hot scent match for me,” she adds reproachfully.
“Yes. Right. Hot scent matches for you. Hiding under the table for me. Let’s do this!”
We head down the steps, far behind the other girls, whom I can already see mingling with alphas in tuxes through the open double doors.
As soon as we enter the ballroom, my senses are assaulted by everything at once. Music and laughter and fake candlelight glimmering everywhere. But even more than that—scents. So many potent aromas mingling all at once as alphas and omegas flirt with each other. Fruity and spicy, earthy and tangy—there are more scents than I can name.
Madam Ellora and several of the other professors from Darling stand near the doors, greeting everyone.
“Welcome…ladies.” I’m fairly certain her delay is because she caught a whiff of me, but she’s not working here for no reason. She quickly and tactfully recovers without cringing at all. Of course, she immediately overcompensates by talking too much. If she’d been born anything but human, she would have been a bee for all the buzzing she does. “We’ve got a wonderful band playing here tonight. And I know you’ll be eager to see Brock and his group, but they haven’t arrived yet.”
I swallow the sigh of relief that threatens to emerge and pin on a smile. “Well, that gives us a chance to grab a drink, then. Thank you so much for putting these events together for us. I know how much work it is.” Gesturing around me, I add, “It looks lovely.”
Madam Ellora’s beaming as I lead Harper off.
“You need to get better at lying,” the other omega observes.
“Really?” I quirk a brow.
“Yes. Your tone was so off.”
“For which part?” I ask as we reach a table laden with a chocolate fountain and platters of dipping fruit. Just beside it is a bar, where we request red wine from the bartenders.
“The thank you for this .” Harper does a terrible imitation of me before she takes her wine glass. With a flirty wink at the bartender, she turns around to face the room and the dancers floating gently across the floor.
I shrug. “I’ll work on it.”
“I would have thought royals would be better at lying. Aren’t you trained from birth on that?”
I fail to smother a smile because if she only knew the amount of lying I was doing daily. But I keep up the joke. “Only for important lies.”
“The feelings of the headmistress don’t qualify?” she teases.
“Feelings never qualify,” I retort without thinking. But after I say the words and they linger in the air, spinning like dust motes through light, the truth of them hits hard. Feelings don’t qualify. Not even mine.
Because I can’t stay morose without causing a ton of public speculation, I take a sip of my wine. The smooth vintage warms my mouth as I scan the room, looking for someone to latch onto so that poor Harper isn’t my sole victim tonight.
But I realize what a loner I am when I can only match a few names to faces…even for the guys who’ve come over from Eros. It makes me cringe a little to realize that, but I’m also uncertain how I’m going to change it. With my constant Superman routine, changing in a bathroom stall and sometimes even the forest between the schools, I don’t have much energy left.
“I don’t know any names,” I admit.
Harper leans in and immediately starts rattling off names and gesturing around the room in a way that’s silky smooth and doesn’t make it obvious we’re gossiping. She’s very good at this, because she seems to know nearly everyone, along with some key details about them to make them memorable.
“That was impressive,” I tell her, raising my glass in a silent toast before taking a drink.
She shrugs. “I people.”
“You certainly peopled me.”
“Yeah, I did.” I don’t even begrudge her the smug look she gives me; I just roll my eyes.
The music breaks, and chatter picks up. An ominous gust of wind sweeps into the room from the hall, making several of the Darling professors shiver.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I’m surprised that the candles don’t sputter out.
That everyone in the room doesn’t stop moving.
That a hole doesn’t open up in the ground to swallow me.
Brock, Nic, and Jamie stride in. Necks swivel, and I watch other omegas eye them with keen interest—but my limbs have locked up. My wine glass sags and tips as my brain starts blaring a repetitive alarm.
No. No. No. No.
Nice as they might be, handsome as they are, the idea of becoming theirs feels like a weighted chain cinching around my neck.
“Bry. Bry!” Harper notices my dismay and ends up flicking my elbow to get my attention.
When I turn to her, I expect my face is dazed with panic.
“Do you want to start Operation Sourdough?”
“What?” My eyebrows rise.
She waves a dismissive hand. “We can workshop the name, okay? But do you want me to throw my wine at you?”
“That would be a very bad idea,” a smooth male voice answers from behind me, making the prickles on my neck become sharp spikes of pressure.
Nervous alarm burns through my veins as I turn to see Nic standing behind me, those massive biceps of his crossed as he stares down my roommate. His arms are so big that he’s not even wearing a jacket and his shirt looks like it’s having a hard time containing him. Alpha pheromones emanate from him in waves so massive that they nearly bowl me over, and my head curls down to the floor automatically.
Fuck.
I’m so screwed.
“Would you excuse us please?” I recognize Brock’s smooth tone from our meeting the other day even though my eyes are firmly fixed on the laces of Nic’s dress shoes.
Harper gives my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze, but then the click of her heels sounds as she walks away. An omega can never disobey an alpha, especially ones as potent as these three.
“Brylee, you look beautiful tonight,” Jamie speaks from my side, and I can feel the three of them surrounding me—not closing in, but just getting close enough for my anxiety to spark.
My shoulders creep up higher, and my hands come together to encircle my wine glass. Forcing myself to breathe slowly, I try not to aggravate my burgeoning panic.
“Thanks,” is a whisper, and it makes me both ashamed of myself and pissed. It’s humiliating that the very idea of having alphas set on a relationship with me—political or not—makes me this scared. And it’s infuriating that I can impersonate Teddie and play at being a snarky alpha all I want, but when I’m in my own skin, direct defiance seems nearly impossible.
A male hand reaches out and latches onto mine, and I have no choice but to release my glass with that hand and let him take it. Brock bends over it and kisses the back of my knuckles, bowing a little, just like he did before.
His eyes glance up and meet mine, and I see sincerity and curiosity shining in their depths as he asks, “Why would our mate want someone to throw wine at her?” He catches a whiff of my toxic combination of perfumes then, and I can see his expression twist.
Tension twines through every muscle in my body.
My mouth parts, and excuses dance along the tip of my tongue.
But then the earth shifts. Gravity slips. I’m suddenly floating as a growl echoes all the way up to the arched ceiling and two massive arms wrap around me. “Your mate? I don’t think so. She’s ours .”