Chapter 9
Imogen
It’s a talent to ignore the discomforting sounds of forks scraping across plates in the vast, silent dining room. My plastic smile would never give away to our company that on the inside, I crave the bass and beat-bumping music of the strip club. It's like a secret locked away, tucked inside, a longing no one can take from me.
Using both the fork and knife—always—I cut small bites from my salad, patting my mouth dry with the napkin after every three or four bites to answer innocuous questions from my betrothed.
Kenneth, the mayor, a tall, lean alpha with harsh lines and high cheekbones, dark hair peppered with early signs of gray, and a perfectly tailored suit, carries most of the conversation.
The deputy mayor, Saul, is similar in stature to his pack mate, though where Kenneth smiles genially, regardless of the topic, Saul learns more toward sternness, and even the lightest comment—My, have you tried that new restaurant on Second Street?—his responses rival a droning scholar, never satisfied with frivolity or casual fair.
Devon and Jonathan are some combination of the other two. Devon likes to talk politics on a global scale, riling up my father, Jeffrey, sparking a heated debate at which, by the end, no one can tell if they agree with one another or are foes. Jonathan also enjoys talking politics, though more haughty, offering his opinion on the state of the economy in Arrow Cove, making no less than five comments toward myself and my family that we couldn’t possibly understand the struggles of high-society people in High Hills, being from Southern California and all. Whatever that's supposed to mean.
I can’t tell if they've always been like this. Boring, kind of rude. If we weren't scent-sympathetic, I might honestly wonder why they were courting me, because they don't seem to find me particularly interesting, either.
Like every other time my mother essentially courted a pack on my behalf, I try to ignore them, and don't care that they couldn't carry on an interesting conversation if they were high on mushrooms and let loose in an amusement park. Maybe the difference now, why I find every word out of their generic mouths grating, is because I've met Dante, and I can’t help but compare the two.
I may not have spent much time—or any, really—with Cass and Iggy, and I haven't even met Red, aside from that glimpse of him when I watched and hid like a stalker behind a thick velvet curtain, but I know they could carry on a dinner conversation far more interesting than this.
"I noticed you’re wearing scent-blockers, Imogen. Is there a reason for this?"
The question jolts me back to reality, and I have to mask my response. "Oh. Well, it’s all the rage these days," I laugh awkwardly, receiving a kick to the ankle from my mother. Stupid jokes aren’t good manners, after all. Rather than excuse my comment, I elaborate, "What I mean to say is it’s not uncommon these days for young people to wear them. The OFA provides the highest quality—"
"Don’t get me started on the OFA, those traitorous rat bastards," Saul grumbles.
Kenneth glares at Saul before relaxing his scowl, turning his charming politician's smile onto me. "In any case, we do love your scent. If you wouldn’t mind, be sure to stop using the blockers in preparation for our next date."
It's not a request, and his alpha dominance laces the demand. My heart pounds in response, but on the outside, I project serenity, dipping my chin. "Of course."
Dinner continues while my fathers and betrothed discuss how they really feel about the OFA—behind closed doors, they can all admit they hate the idea of providing omegas with more resources, while in front of cameras and for the Daily Rag, they support the cause fully. They all carry on a conversation together, and I wonder if they realize I don’t even need to be in the room for this courtship.
A staff member comes to clear the table. Another unnecessary expense, when my mother or fathers could clear the table themselves.
Nearly an hour passes, dessert has been served, and I don't think I've said a single word. I'm good at this, pretending, keeping a smile on. It's so practiced, anyone watching me would think I'm paying rapt attention, when really, my mind has wandered off. So when Jonathan snaps his fingers, I turn directly toward him, at the ready.
"Imogen, that reminds me. I've got something for you, here," he digs into his pocket with all the ceremony of searching for his keys when he drops a velvet box onto the table.
"Oh! Bowen, Jeffrey, come, let's give the kids some time alone," my mother coos, hopping up in excitement, ushering my fathers away after they all say goodnight for the evening, leaving me alone with the expectant alphas, who are most certainly not kids.
I stare at the box sitting on the table and wonder if he expects me to get up and come to him, or…
Finally, he passes it to Kenneth, seated beside me, who hands it over.
"How did you like the spa?" Kenneth asks me just as I reach out to take the small case. My fingers just barely grasp the box. A sense of uneasiness washes over me as he holds it closer to his chest, almost like he's trying to tease me, to get me to chase after their treat, toying with me, like I'm a puppet, or a dog.
Instead of playing his game, I release the box, not caring if I ever open it. "The gift card was lovely, thank you so much. It was an extremely thoughtful gift." I doubt he can hear the sarcasm in my voice, which is confirmed when he smiles down at me, his bright white veneer teeth looking especially shiny and sharp. My heart races, and I know what he's thinking. I can tell by the sudden change of his scent, the way it shifts and brightens, but it's cloying and all wrong.
He's thinking he'll get to bite me soon, bind me to him. Judging by the mass amount of pheromones he’s releasing, he's thinking of my heat.
What am I doing here? I can barely stomach dinner with him. I can't marry this man.
"I'm so glad you enjoyed it. It would have been nice to receive a thank you sooner, though."
"Well, perhaps I could have said thank you sooner had you given it to me in person." I’m not usually so bold, but I’m finding it especially difficult to keep up the pretense.
His eyes flash with something dark, but he clears it just as quickly, that genial politician sliding back into place. He's almost as good at it as I am. "That's an excellent point. We should keep closer tabs on you. Why don't we exchange numbers, that way, we can stay in touch. I was really hoping we could share a bonding ceremony soon, but I suppose we can wait for your next heat. Your mother tells me it's still a couple of months away, but if we're lucky, we'll get to have it before the wedding."
My stomach churns. We'll get to have it, like it's his, like he has a right to it. But that's what I've let him think, right? That I'm here because my mother, who has obviously shared extremely intimate details about me, told me to be here, and I listened. Why should he expect anything else?
Is he really this sinister, or have I just let myself fall into this situation, allowing him to feel he has a right to treat me like a prop? Or, as Ophelia said, a pawn or a toy. A commodity that he's bought and paid for.
"Certainly, let's exchange numbers," I croak, my voice betraying me. Kenneth's eyes flash once more, but for a different reason. At the mention of my heat, he thinks he's affecting me, that he's turning me on, and I can feel his alpha dominance pushing toward me, trying to subjugate me. I school my expression, "I'll be sure to get it from my mother, as my phone is upstairs. I'll send you a message after dinner."
"Excellent." With that, he shoves the box back into my hands. Jonathan deemed me worthy enough to get up out of his seat, and I cringe when he runs his fingers through my hair, pulling it off my neck, not quite touching my skin, but hinting, hovering.
"I saw these and thought of you. Dripping in diamonds. You really are quite perfect, Imogen," Jonathan says.
I open the box. Diamond earrings, which look nearly identical to the ones I'm already wearing.
"These are lovely, Jonathan. Thank you so much."
"Here, let's try them on," he leans closer as if to take my earrings out and put his in their place. Abruptly, I stand, startling the four of them. This isn't right. They aren't Dante.
I need Iggy and Cass. I need to meet Red properly. I want their scents, Cass's fresh cotton, Iggy's warm mulled wine.
Not these alphas. I can't do this. I don't know how to fix this. They're all staring at me, so I clear my throat. "It's getting quite late. Thank you so much for the earrings. I'll be sure to share my phone number later," I say to Kenneth.
He's not used to being dismissed, and he certainly never expected it from me, but I stand my ground. I can see the war behind his eyes, but ultimately, he agrees it's getting late.
"Why don't you walk us out, darling." His hand on my arm doesn't give me much choice, but I acquiesce. We walk to the foyer, and I dig in my heels since I won't be leaving the building with them.
He lets go, and all four men kiss my cheek and say goodnight, their alpha scents pushing and prodding at me, marking me with their pheromones, laying claim to me before they go.
Choosing to scrub their scents off me immediately or escape this ostentatious prison is a toss-up.
More than anything, I need to get out of here. I'm beyond relieved my mother isn't waiting for me at the top of the stairs. Leaving the velvet box with the diamond earrings on the vanity in the bathroom, with shaky hands, I dig out another piece of luggage from my closet and begin packing more of my things. I don't know why. It's not like I'm moving out.
But my body knows more than my mind because it packs on autopilot. Without saying goodbye, without tracking down Kenneth's phone number, I hurry to my car, and only when I'm crossing the Sixth Street bridge into South Loop do my nerves settle.