Chapter 17 Esmerelda
ESMERELDA
My tongue has been stuck to the roof of my mouth for just about the entire car ride over, and swallowing is near impossible. It started back in the kitchen when Marcus looked at me like that.
Not just with heat, but with hunger.
Just thinking about the way his eyes dragged slowly up my body, his tongue darting out of his mouth, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he paused on my chest, made me feel naked in my latex.
Naked and beautiful.
For the briefest moment, I swore I heard him inhale sharply through his soft, parted lips.
And gods help me, it did things to me I haven’t felt in longer than I can remember.
An infernal rush sits low in my belly, and I press my thighs together, needing a relief that won’t come. I need to get it together, or I won’t be able to disguise my body’s reaction to something as simple as a look. One devastating look.
Now I’m sitting beside him in the backseat of the limo, the silence almost suffocating, and I swear the air itself hums with awareness. His leg is right there. Close enough that the heat rolls off him but not quite touching mine. Almost. Almost.
That almost is its own kind of torture. My skin tingles as I fight the urge to lean in. The leather seat is cold against my bare back, but all I can feel is the warmth radiating from him, calling me closer like a flame too dangerous to touch.
My wolf shifts beneath my skin, sensing what my human half won’t admit out loud. One brush of contact, one inch closer, would set me on fire.
Still, he doesn’t move. Neither do I. The space between us feels deliberate, like an elastic band pulled tight, daring one of us to snap it.
The air in here doesn’t feel enough. So, I crack the window to let in a thin rush of night air.
It doesn’t help. The scents inside are still wrong.
They’ve all been glamoured, scrubbed sharp and false, and though Marcus doesn’t smell bad—gods, his new scent will probably bring half the room to its knees—it’s just that it isn’t him.
It isn’t the scent I’ve become so accustomed to, the one that used to hit me like a warning bell whenever he entered a room, or brushed too close as he passed. That faint, grounding thread that told me he was there.
I steal a sidelong glance at him, taking in the new angles, the glamoured cheekbones, the altered eyes. He looks gorgeous—objectively, dangerously gorgeous—but it unsettles me. Because it isn’t Marcus.
And maybe that’s the point. Maybe the face I prefer, the one stripped of these prosthetics, is tangled up in the man I was forced to marry, the grudges and the grief I can’t separate from him.
This new face, this new body… it feels like a stranger.
A stranger with whom I’m choosing to walk into this event.
That thought sends a flicker through me, something absurdly like the nervous thrill of a blind date. I’m not supposed to feel that. Not here. Not with him. But gods help me, I do.
Marcus seems more relaxed than I’ve seen him in days. There’s still tension in the air—how could there not be, when we’re walking into danger to uncover the truth about our families’ petrification? But beneath that, there’s something lighter. An ease to his shoulders. A looseness in his jaw.
Maybe it’s the disguise. Maybe knowing he won’t be recognized, won’t be judged as the alpha, gives him the space to simply…be. To breathe without the weight of expectation crushing every inhale.
I’ve only glimpsed this side of him once before while passing his office when he’d forgotten to close the door. He hadn’t noticed me then, head bent over a book, his whole body humming with a quiet, unguarded energy. That’s the energy I feel now.
It radiates from him like warmth, this rare state of peace. Freedom. A space to exist without performance. My wolf perks up, drawn to it instinctively, because freedom smells like truth, and truth is what we crave most of all.
And maybe that’s what I’m feeling from him now—an intimacy not born of touch or words, but of being close enough to witness him as himself.
The wind picks up, tugging at the curls Minerva spent so much time perfecting, whipping them straight into my face. Strands cling to my lips, tickle my cheek, blur my vision. I huff in frustration, ready to shove them back myself, when Marcus leans over.
His fingers brush lightly against my temple as he sweeps the hair from my eyes.
The simple touch is maddeningly gentle, deliberate, and then he tucks the stray curls behind my ear with a care that feels entirely out of place for him—the indifferent bookworm, the man I married out of obligation, not tenderness.
My breath catches. The heat of his skin lingers against mine longer than the touch itself, sparking down my spine. My wolf stills, waiting, caught between suspicion and something that feels dangerously like yearning.
I tell myself it’s nothing. Just practicality. Just him keeping my face clear. But damn, the way it felt? It was anything but nothing.
It happens so naturally I doubt he’s even aware of it—some unconscious habit or instinct—but when Marcus’s eyes find mine, they don’t leave.
They hold. And Hell’s bells, the way he looks at me makes the whole world narrow to just the two of us.
My heart thunders loud enough that I wonder if he can hear it the way I hear his, quickening with every passing second.
Then his gaze dips, sliding down from my eyes to my mouth.
My lips are painted darker than usual, fuller with the clever trick of overdrawn liner, and suddenly I regret the choice.
I hadn’t done it for him, and yet under the weight of his stare, I feel exposed, self-conscious, like he’s seeing more than just paint.
Before we left, I wondered about altering my face even more.
Anything to make me less recognizable. But this already feels like too much.
Too bold. Too hungry. And Marcus’s sharp swallow tells me I’m not imagining it.
His attention lingers on my mouth until he blinks and jerks his head forward, scowling at the windshield as though the glass offended him.
The spell shatters, leaving me breathless.
I sneak a chance to take him in while his attention is elsewhere.
The full three-piece suit in ink-black, gloves that make him look dangerous, the gold key hanging at his throat—a symbol, a secret, an emblem I don’t fully understand.
But it’s not the suit or the key that makes my pulse skip.
It’s the undone buttons at his collar, the bare patch of skin and the solid breadth of his chest, defined and broad in a way that makes my mouth dry. Or drier, if that’s even possible.
I shouldn’t look. Gods, I shouldn’t want to look. And yet it’s like a magnetic pull.
I lift my champagne glass, using it as a shield, pretending the sip is casual when really it’s to mask the hard swallow clawing its way up my throat. I force myself to look composed, unaffected, even as the heat under my skin betrays me.
To distract myself, I let my gaze wander to Minerva.
She’s stunning. Head-to-toe in latex, the gleam catching the dim limo lights with every shift of her body.
The dominatrix garb hugs her frame like it was poured onto her, leather pants molding to her curves like a second skin.
She looks powerful, commanding, almost untouchable.
And then there’s Leonard. Dressed as a leather pup.
Black leather gleams over him, straps crisscrossing his chest in a harness that frames his body well, every silver buckle catching the flicker of streetlamps outside.
But the hood… Gods above, the hood is what does it.
A full pup mask, ears perked, snout molded, rivets shining.
A collar circles his throat, a chain coiled lazily in one gloved hand as though he actually owns the look.
The irony isn’t lost on any of us. Minerva smirks, and I press my lips together to hide a laugh.
Leonard just grins through the muzzle like he was born for this.
He leans into the absurdity instead of fighting it, lounging against the seat as though he’s the crown jewel of this ridiculous circus.
I lean across him, catching Minerva’s attention, and smirk. “Told you you’d make a good Domme.”
She smiles, but there’s a flicker in her eyes, a quick dart of concern that dilutes the playfulness of the moment.
“No one’s going to recognize us,” I assure her.
“I’m not worried about anyone recognizing me,” she says, her voice pitched low, more growl than words. “I’m worried about people recognizing you.”
I glance down at myself and huff a laugh. “Who the hell is going to recognize me dressed like this?”
Min smirks, giving me a once-over. “I have to say, you do look hot.”
“Why, thank you,” I reply, aiming for light, but even I can hear the nerves in my voice. She crooks a finger, pulling me closer until her warm breath brushes against my ear.
“I think your husband is having a hard time keeping his eyes off you.”
Blood rushes to my cheeks before I can stop it. My traitorous pulse stutters, and I don’t dare look in Marcus’s direction because I already know she’s right. I felt his gaze earlier—heavy and lingering, like it was marking me.
By the time we arrive at the party, the swarm in my stomach has become a full-blown hive of bees battering their wings against my ribs.
Every step closer to those doors makes the air thicker, harder to breathe.
Gods, I hope this works. I hope tonight gives us something—anything—to make sense of the mess our families have been thrown into.
Because if it doesn’t, then all of this—the disguises, the tension, the dangerous heat simmering between me and Marcus—will have been for nothing.