Chapter 7 #2
Blondie sets her tablet aside and draws a velvet pouch from inside her suit jacket. Diamonds spill into her palm. Too many of them, ornate and old. It looks like the kind of thing you’d see on a dead woman in a portrait above a fireplace.
Then it closes around my neck.
Heavy. Cold as creek water in January. It settles against my throat exactly where a collar would sit, metal and stones pressing into the tender places above my bond marks.
My fingers go to it at once. I want the weight off. I want whatever it means gone.
“Don’t remove it.” Her tone goes cool and firm, the voice adults use on other people’s badly behaved children. “It does not leave your neck tonight.”
My hair, restored for him. My skin, polished for him. My body, calibrated by him before I could walk. Why would my throat belong to me?
They turn me toward a full-length mirror and arrange themselves behind me like artists inspecting a painting.
The woman in the glass cannot be me.
She looks like a debutante. Someone porcelain and well-rested and innocent of every feral thought in my head.
Her hair is swept into an intricate updo, with soft pieces at the temples designed to suggest sweetness.
Her face is all muted pink. Diamonds at her throat.
Baby blue to her ankles. Four bond marks powdered down until they are little more than shadows.
His daughter.
His creation.
I want to ruin her.
I want to drag her backward through a hedge. Split her lip. Smear the pink from her mouth and pull every pin from her hair with someone’s fist tangled in it. I want her wrecked and panting and recognizable again.
Mine again.
“You’re ready. You may meet your partners in the entryway.”
One of the women kneels with my heels. I step back before she can catch my ankle and scoop the shoes from the floor by their straps.
“I’ve got it. Thanks.”
She retreats without argument.
One thing.
They took six hours and every inch of skin. I hook the straps tighter around my fingers and walk past all five of them barefoot.
I find them exactly where I’ve been told they’ll be.
Four alphas in black tuxedos.
Oh.
Oh, that is deeply unfair.
My knees perform a small betrayal. Thought drains from my head. They are the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen, and every one of them wears formal clothes like a separate kind of threat.
Weller stands carved from the doorway’s gold light, all ruthless lines and perfect black.
Owen’s shoulders pull at his jacket seams as though the tuxedo has personally offended him.
Tristan lounges against the wall with the indolent confidence of a man who owns the entryway, the house, and possibly gravity.
Freddie is already smiling at me like I hung the moon - and like he’d be delighted to remove this dress with his teeth.
All four look at me as if they have never seen me before.
My scent answers before I can stop it. It always betrays me with them. Vanilla and amber turn warm and heavy, sugar scorching dark at the edges, spreading through the entryway like a slow hand down a bare chest.
Four sets of nostrils flare at once.
Four chests rumble.
Good.
Suffer.
Sneaky, gorgeous, collared, lying alphas.
Weller
Bianca rounds the corner in baby blue and Montgomery’s diamonds. Her scent reaches me first, warm sugar darkening beneath vanilla and amber.
Assessment, in order.
One: she is standing under her own power.
Two: she is devastating.
Three: our enemy has covered our bond marks with his diamonds, and every instinct I possess submits the same report.
Tear them off.
I acknowledge the report. My hands find my cufflinks instead. They are straight. I straighten them again.
Her gaze moves across Owen, Tristan, Freddie. Then it lands on me. The corner of her mouth lifts, and she tips her head to bare the long line of her throat - slowly - so the diamonds catch the light over the exact place my mark lives.
My mouth floods.
“Gentlemen.” She glances down the row of us. “Looking delicious.”
Freddie recovers first because Freddie always recovers first.
“You are so fucking pretty, baby.” He steps in to kiss her cheek. Color rises beneath the careful makeup, and his hand rests at her waist one second past innocent before he forces himself to let go.
She looks down at the blue silk. “Why do I suddenly feel like I’m eighteen again and we’re going to prom?”
I manage a quiet laugh as my pulse beats wildly.
“Could I have a moment, Bianca?” I take her elbow and steer her toward the alcove off our wing, beyond the clean sightline from the main hall. The others let us go. Freddie catches my eye as we pass, smiling steadily for her benefit.
Alone with Bianca, I permit myself five seconds to look at her.
Five seconds is a tactical error.
At this distance, her scent wraps around the base of my skull and pulls. The sugar note is nearly molten. Beneath powder, hairspray, and a scent enhancer chosen by strangers, she still smells like our bed. Like every night I’ve spent drowning in her scent, delirious from her proximity.
They have arranged her to look soft.