Chapter 14 Etienne
Etienne
She stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom, holding up a third outfit against her body.
"No," she muttered, tossing it onto the bed with the others. "Too casual."
I leaned against the doorframe, watching her. She'd been at this for twenty minutes, and the pile of rejected clothes had grown into a small mountain.
"Princesse, you could wear a bin bag and still look beautiful."
She shot me a look over her shoulder. "That's not helpful."
"It's true."
She picked up a navy dress, considered it, then dropped it back onto the bed with a frustrated sigh. Her hair was still damp from the shower, falling in waves down her back. She wore leggings and one of my training shirts, the fabric hanging off her shoulder.
Mine.
The thought hit me hard, possessive and primal. My shirt. My scent. My omega.
Except she wasn't. Not really, at least, not yet.
"What about this?" She held up a cream jumper and dark jeans.
"Perfect."
"You said that about the last three outfits."
"Because they were all perfect."
She threw a pillow at me. I caught it, grinning.
"You're impossible," she said, but there was no heat in it.
She disappeared into the ensuite to change, and I pulled out my phone. The match started in two hours. We needed to leave soon, but I wanted her to feel comfortable and confident.
She emerged a few minutes later, dressed in a jumper and jeans. She'd added the navy coat she'd bought yesterday, the one that made her eyes look impossibly blue.
"Better?" she asked.
"You look amazing."
She rolled her eyes, but a flush creeped up her neck.
An idea struck me.
"Wait here."
I pulled out my phone and dialed Hastings. He answered on the third ring, his voice tight with irritation.
"This better be important. We're over the Atlantic."
"It is. I need you and Fritz."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. I just want to show you something."
I switched to a video call. Hastings' face filled the screen, gray eyes narrowed. Behind him, the interior of the private jet, all leather and polished wood.
"Etienne—"
"Look at our omega."
I turned the phone toward Presley.
She froze, her eyes going wide. "What are you doing?"
"Showing them how beautiful you look."
"Etienne!" Her face went scarlet. She tried to cover her face with her hands, but I caught her wrists, holding them down gently.
"Stunning," Fritz's voice came from off-screen. A second later, his face appeared next to Hastings, his expression shifting from confusion to appreciation. “Wait, is that Presley?”
“Thanks,” Presley muttered.
"No, it's the Queen," I said dryly.
Hastings said nothing, but his jaw tightened. His eyes tracked over her face, her hair, the jumper that showed her perky breasts.
"What do you think?" I asked them. "Should I take her to the match looking like this?"
"Like I told you, you look stunning," Fritz said immediately. "Absolutely stunning."
Presley made a small noise of protest, but her lips curved upward. She liked it. She liked them seeing her, admiring her.
"Have an amazing day," Hastings said finally, his voice rougher than usual. "Both of you."
I ended the call and pocketed my phone.
Presley stared at me, her cheeks still pink. "I can't believe you just did that."
"Why not? They should see you. They should know what they're missing while they're stuck on a plane."
"This is just an arrangement."
"Is it?"
She didn't answer. She just grabbed her bag and headed for the door.
I followed, smiling.
The drive to the stadium took forty minutes.
Presley sat in the passenger seat of my Range Rover, her hands twisted in her lap. She'd been quiet since we left the townhouse, staring out the window at the passing buildings.
"You're nervous," I said.
"I'm fine."
"You've been chewing your lip for the past ten minutes."
She stopped immediately, her hand flying to her mouth. "I just—what if people judge me?"
"Why would they judge you?"
"Because I'm nobody. I'm a waitress from a caravan park, and you're—" She gestured vaguely at me. "You."
I reached over, taking her hand. Her fingers were cold, trembling slightly.
"You're not nobody, Princesse. You're ours."
"For now."
The words stung, but I pushed past them.
"The people in that box won't care where you're from. They'll care that you're with me. And if anyone says anything, I'll deal with it."
She laughed, but it was shaky. "You can't fight everyone."
"Watch me."
That got a real smile out of her.
I spent the rest of the drive teaching her the basics of rugby. She listened intently, asking questions that made me realize she was smarter than she gave herself credit for.
"So the scrum is when everyone piles on top of each other?"
"Essentially."
"And the try is like a goal?"
"Close enough."
"And you play—what position?"
"Flanker. I tackle people and try to steal the ball."
"So you hit people for a living."
"Occasionally."
She shook her head, but she was smiling now. "This sport is barbaric."
"It's strategic."
"It's violent."
"That too."
We pulled into the stadium car park, and the noise hit us immediately. Thousands of fans streaming toward the entrance, chanting, singing, and waving flags.
Presley's hand tightened on mine.
"Just watch me," I said, turning to face her. "When I score, I'll look for you."
"What if you don't score?"
I grinned. "I always score, Princesse."
The VIP box was everything I'd expected. Champagne, canapés, comfortable seating with a perfect view of the pitch. The other players' partners were already there, clustered in small groups, laughing and chatting.
Presley walked in behind me, her shoulders tense.
A few heads turned. Some assessed, eyes calculating every step. She stayed close to me.
One of the women, a tall brunette married to our lock, approached with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"You must be new," she said.
"I am," Presley replied, her voice steady despite the way her fingers dug into my arm.
"I'm Caron. And you are?"
"Presley."
"And how do you know Etienne?"
I stepped in before Presley could answer. "She's with me. That's all anyone needs to know."
Caron's smile tightened. "Of course."
She retreated, and I guided Presley to a seat near the glass.
"You didn't have to do that," she said quietly.
"Yes, I did. And don’t feel you need to answer any of their prying questions. Just watch the game."
I checked my watch. It was only ten minutes until kickoff. I needed to get down to the changing room. But first, I pulled her into my arms, wrapping her in a hug that was more than just comfort, breathed in her scent and let mine settle over her skin.
She stiffened. "What are you doing?"
"Scent marking you."
"Etienne—"
"So everyone knows you're mine."
She pulled back, her blue eyes searching mine. "You know I'm not your forever."
The words hung between us.
But I'd seen the way she looked at me. The way she fit in my arms. The way her lips lifted in a beautiful smile when Hastings and Fritz called her stunning.
I cupped her face, my thumb brushing her cheek. "We'll see about that, Princesse."
Then I left, before she could argue, before I could say something I couldn't take back.
But as I walked down to the changing room, my heart pounding as her scent clung to my skin, there one thing for certain. This wasn't just an arrangement anymore.
Not for me.
And I was damn sure it wasn't for her either.