27. Declan
27
DECLAN
I stare at the blood-streaked canvas. The red has dried to a rusty brown now, but in my mind, I can still see it fresh and vibrant against her pale skin.
She hadn’t screamed. Not once. That’s what fascinates me most about Synthia Fuller.
Tarquin strides in, his face a mask of cold fury. His gaze falls immediately to the painting.
“You’ve gone too far,” he says quietly, which is always more dangerous than when he shouts.
I shrug, turning back to my work. “She consented.”
“Did she? Or did you manipulate her into it, as you do with everyone?”
I laugh at that. “You’re one to talk about manipulation, Tarq. How exactly did you convince her to come here in the first place? With promises of money she desperately needs?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, which tells me I’ve hit a nerve.
“Did you confront her about the inducers?” I ask instead, changing the subject.
“I did. She confirmed that she procured them for Rob.”
I breathe out in relief. He catches it but doesn’t say anything. “For the money?”
“Yes.”
“Did she say why?”
“No.”
“Did you ask her?”
“Obviously. I wasn’t going to press her. She is scared.”
“Scared? Of what?”
He shrugs. “She didn’t say,” he clips out. “But her scent deepened, almost to the point where it was seeping visibly out of her skin.”
“The phone call,” I murmur.
He looks at me sharply. “What phone call?”
“When I was in her room, her phone rang. It was No Caller ID. I answered it.” I shrug unapologetically.
“And?”
“And nothing. They didn’t say anything and hung up.”
Tarquin takes this information in. While he does, I turn back to my painting. “So what now? You know Tris has fallen like a plank for her.”
“I’m aware.”
“So what do you plan on doing about it?”
“Investigate further.”
“Hmm. And why was that not done before you brought her here?”
“I didn’t want to dig too deeply. I didn’t want to know her.” His admission is soft, striking in its sincerity.
I feign focus on the painting in front of me, but my heart is hammering hard. “And now?”
“Now I find out what she’s hiding.”
“And if it’s not to your liking?”
Tarquin’s gaze turns to ice. “Then I will deal with it accordingly.”
I know what that means. I’ve seen him deal with problems before. People have a way of disappearing when they cross him. But something tells me this omega is different. She’s got under his skin in a way I haven’t seen before.
“She’s not what you think she is,” I say carefully, adding another stroke of crimson to the canvas.
“And what do I think she is?” His voice is dangerously calm.
I turn to face him fully now. “A simple high-class escort who got in over her head. There’s more to her. The way she takes pain, the way she calculates every move—she’s playing a game.”
“We’re all playing games, Declan.”
“Not like this.” I set down my brush. “She’s dangerous.”
“To whom?” he asks.
“To all of us. Especially Tristan. He’s completely besotted.”
“Tristan is full of lust for her. He will get over it.”
“There’s another one of those pesky sins. They are racking up, Tarq. Not many more to go. Did you ever think this was her plan?”
“What? To ruin us with sin?” he scoffs.
“To get what she wants by using what she can. So far, we’ve had wrath, envy, lust, gluttony… it’s not long before we get to pride, and who will fall? Her or us?”
He doesn’t say anything.
“I’m betting us. She knows what she wants. Whatever the stakes are, they’re higher than we can imagine.”
“You seem to know an awful lot about her, seeing as you’ve never spent any time with her outside of scaring her half to death.”
“She wasn’t scared of me.”
“She told me you disfigured her.”
That catches my attention. I turn away from the painting to stare at him. “I beg your fucking pardon?”
“Her words.”
Somewhere, deep fucking down, that hurts me. I squash it immediately. Hurt has no place here in my tormented mind.
“I made her into art,” I growl, trying to hide how her accusation stings. “The cut was shallow. Deliberate. She knew exactly what she was agreeing to.”
Tarquin’s eyes narrow as he studies me. “Did she? Or did you simply not give her a choice she could realistically refuse?”
I turn back to my canvas, not wanting him to see the flicker of doubt in my eyes. The truth is, I’m not even sure anymore. When I had her laid out before me, when I drew that blade across her skin, she hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t begged. Hadn’t made a sound. She fell asleep while I was working.
“She’s manipulating you too,” I mutter. “Can’t you see it?”
“I see an omega who needs money desperately enough to risk her life with illegal heat inducers,” Tarquin says, his voice uncharacteristically thoughtful. “What I don’t understand is why.”
“Maybe she’s in debt. Maybe she has expensive taste. Maybe she’s running from something.”
“Or someone,” Tarquin adds quietly.
The silence between us grows heavy with unspoken thoughts. We’ve known each other too long not to understand what the other is thinking. Whatever game Ms Fuller is playing, we’re all becoming entangled in it.
“She’ll be at dinner tonight,” Tarquin says finally, breaking the silence. “I want you to behave yourself.”
I laugh, a hollow sound that echoes in the studio. “Since when have I ever behaved myself?”
“I mean it, Declan.” His voice takes on that edge that even I know better than to challenge directly. “No more cutting. No more blood games. Not until we understand what we’re dealing with. She could be a loose cannon.”
“Who you knowingly have let into our midst. A cat amongst our pigeons. A spanner in our works. A?—”
“I get the fucking point. I cocked up by thinking with my dick,” he spits out.
“I think there’s more to it. Rob had her and you wanted to buy her out from under him. It’s clear. You have always had this rivalry with him, stupid and elite as it is… oh, who could get the best A+ on our maths exam… who was best at lacrosse, whose horse was the best at Ascot. It’s so fucking gentrified, I would laugh if I was so inclined. He had her, you wanted her better, even to the detriment of your pack.”
“Wow,” he snarls. “Do you want to be more insulting?”
“Oh, I can be. I haven’t even started yet.”
His eyes flash with rage, a warning I know all too well. But I’m in no mood to back down. “That’s enough,” he growls.
“No, it’s not,” I press on, reckless now. “You want to know why she needs the money so badly? Why don’t you actually ask her instead of playing these fucking power games? Because while you’re busy trying to intimidate her into submission, she’s calculating her next move.”
“I did ask her!” he roars.
“Did you? Did you actually sit down and be nice and calm and worried about her? Or did you demand an answer like a fucking jackass?”
His eyes burn with blue fire, and for a moment, I think he might hit me. Instead, he takes a slow, measured breath—the kind he takes when he’s trying not to lose control.
“You know nothing about our conversation,” he says, each word clipped and precise.
“I know you,” I counter. “I know how you handle things that threaten you.”
“She doesn’t threaten me.”
I laugh again, genuinely this time. “She terrifies you. Not because of what she might do, but because of what she makes you feel.”
Tarquin goes still, the kind of deadly stillness that usually precedes violence. But I’ve known him too long to be intimidated.
“I’ve seen how you look at her,” I continue, wiping my hands on a paint-stained cloth. “It’s not just lust. It’s not just curiosity. You recognise something in her that you see in yourself.”
“You’re overstepping,” he warns.
“Am I wrong?”
He doesn’t reply, which is answer enough. I turn back to my painting, adding another stroke of burgundy to the canvas.
“Seven o’clock,” he says finally. “Dinner. Be there. And Declan—” He pauses at the door. “If you hurt her again, I’ll break your fucking hands.”
After he leaves, I stare at the canvas for a long time. She haunts me, this omega who refuses to break. I wonder what darkness she carries inside her that matches mine.