Company Manners #2
I hate it so much my vision briefly goes white at the edges as Lavinia pulls me out of my bedroom and down the hall, my tennis skirt swishing against my thighs.
Lavinia drags me down the staircase and through the house, past the entrance to the temperature-controlled wine cellar, the wood-paneled library, and the long formal dining room where the table is already set for four, crystal glasses and white linen and candles that haven't been lit yet. My feet hit every step even though I’m screaming inside.
We stop outside my father's office.
My mother releases my wrist and turns to face me. Her fingers go straight to my ponytail, yanking the elastic free so hard my head jerks to the side.
"Hold still," she says, smoothing her hands over my hair like she didn’t just rip it out by the roots. Then she straightens my collar with two quick, efficient movements, her fingers cool against my skin, her cold eyes moving over me, head to toe.
I see her frown slightly when she looks at my feet, at the mismatched socks. One white, one pale yellow with a long loose thread hanging off the big toe of the left one.
My mother lets out a short breath through her nose, clearly displeased, then she looks right at me.
"You will be sweet," she orders, her tone hushed. "You will be friendly and pleasant and agree with anything you are told. You will make Crispin Maleth feel welcome in this house."
No, I won’t, I think. Absolutely not. Not even slightly. I would rather eat the carpet.
But I don't have a choice. Her command grips me, forcing my head to nod.
"Yes, Mother," I hear myself say.
She holds my gaze for one more second, then reaches past me and opens the office door.
My father and Crispin are arranged on the far side of the room, near the cold fireplace.
My father is settled in his large armchair, a glass of whiskey balanced on the arm, while Crispin occupies the matching couch beside him.
Both pieces are upholstered in the same expensive navy velvet imported specifically for this room.
My father laughs at something Crispin just said, before taking a long pull from his glass.
"Move." Lavinia’s cold hand wraps around my upper arm, then pulls me forward.
Crispin looks up the moment we step inside. His gray eyes snap to me, moving down the length of me and back up, taking in my tennis skirt and my disheveled hair before settling on my face.
The corner of his mouth lifts.
"Lyra." His voice fills the room. "There you are."
My father rises from his chair, his expression smoothing into something that resembles warmth.
"Yes. There she is." He spreads his hands like my absence has been a charming inconvenience rather than the deliberate act of survival it was.
"We were beginning to think you'd gotten lost on the court.
" He laughs, and Crispin laughs with him, and I smile because my mother is standing directly behind me.
"I’m glad you made it home before Crispin left," Father says as he lifts his glass. His eyes find mine over the rim of his whiskey glass and hold them. The long vein along the left side of his neck pulses once.
"I lost track of time," I say pleasantly. "I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting."
Crispin sets down his glass and his eyes move over me, unhurried, top to bottom and back again. Something about the smile that follows makes me want to pull my skirt down another six inches.
"No need to apologize," he says. "The view was worth the wait."
Disgust cuts through me, and I take a step back without thinking.
My mother is right behind me, solid and immovable, and I stop short.
My eyes fly to my father. Shock grips me when his smile grows.
What the hell is happening?
My parents have never liked me much. That's not self-pity, it's just fact.
But there has always been a rule in this house, unspoken and ironclad: no one disrespects their property.
And I am their property. The same way the Monet in the sitting room is their property, and the cellar full of wine nobody drinks is their property.
You don't let someone talk carelessly about things that belong to you.
"Come here, omega." My father gestures to the small settee near the fireplace. "Sit down."
My feet move before I give them permission, across the Persian rug.
Toward the couch. Toward Crispin.
My mother's command sits over me like a hand pressed flat between my shoulder blades, pushing, forcing me to be someone I’m not.
My legs shake as I lower myself onto the far end of the couch, putting as much distance between myself and Crispin as possible.
It still isn't enough.
"We have something to discuss," Father says as Lavinia moves to him, perching herself on the arm of his chair, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder.
"Crispin and I have come to an agreement.
" He reaches over, setting his whiskey on the small side table next to him, and his mouth curves into the kind of smile he reserves for closed deals.
"We have wonderful news, Lyra. You're getting married by the end of next week. "
The room goes quiet and my whole body goes cold.
Not gradually.
But all at once.
Like ice water poured over me, from the crown of my head to the soles of my mismatched socks.
My eyes snap to Crispin.
He's not looking at my face. His gaze has dropped to my chest, then lower, tracking down to where my tennis skirt has ridden up on the couch cushion, exposing the length of my bare legs.
Every muscle in my body screams at me to stand up and run as fast as I can. To put every piece of furniture in this room between myself and him and then keep going, straight through the door and down the hall and out of this house and never, ever stop.
But my body doesn't move.
I’m locked behind my mother’s command.
I want to scream.
To flip the side table and send my father's whiskey across his stupid-expensive Persian rug. I want to tell Crispin Maleth exactly what I think about his pompous attitude and ugly face. I want to tell both of my parents that they're awful fucking people who should have asked me first.
Every single angry thing I have ever wanted to say to him lines up and crowds against my teeth. Then it sits there. Unable to actually be said.
"Why?" The word comes out soft and polite, and it costs me everything I have.
Crispin's mouth curves, warm and indulgent, like I've said something adorable.
"I know, gorgeous." He reaches over and pats my knee, his hand so heavy on my skin.
"A week feels like a long time to wait. But you'll need time to find a dress, get your things in order, and plan the ceremony.
" He tilts his head, his gray eyes go soft along the edges.
"Omegas love a proper mating ceremony, and I didn't want to deprive you of that. " He smiles like he's doing me a favor.
Like the question on my face is impatience and not raw, screaming terror.
Like I am a girl who has been waiting her whole life for exactly this, and he is the generous alpha who is giving it to her.
"I don’t—" The words stop short in my throat, and Mother’s eyes quickly narrow at my face. My mouth snaps shut, and my hands go ice cold.
"Trust me, my pet." Crispin leans in, his voice dropping into something he clearly thinks is intimate. "I don't want to wait either. But eight days isn't so long." His hand squeezes my knee once. "We’ll be bonded before you know it."
Bonded….
I don't look at him.
I can't.
I pull in a slow breath through my nose then fix my eyes on my mother.
The fury that moves through me is so hot and total it almost feels like calm.
She did this. She issued a command and locked me inside my own body like a prisoner, and now she's sitting on the arm of my father's chair looking back at me without a single flicker of remorse.
Her pale green eyes meet mine and hold them, cool and steady and almost daring.
Try it, her expression says. See what happens.