Chapter 31
The Blackwood dining room stretches vast and frigid, a cathedral of rot dressed in opulence.
Stained glass windows scatter shards of crimson and gold across the polished mahogany.
Servants move in metronomic rhythm around the table, setting down silver platters with unerring precision. None meet my eyes.
My ruby pulses erratically against my throat as Dom guides me to my seat, his palm firm at the base of my spine.
Something is wrong. I press my fingers to the pendant and feel the faint edges of new cracks, ones I swear weren’t there this morning.
The last thing I need is for it to explode between the fruit bowl and bacon.
“Here.” Dom pulls out my chair, hovering as I sit. “You should eat something.”
The table gleams with abundance: bowls of honey-drenched figs, berries polished to near-glass, flaky pastries still steaming. Dom reaches for the fruit, hands shaking almost imperceptibly as he arranges each piece on my plate.
“I can do that myself,” I say, but he’s already pouring tea into the bone china cup I once claimed as mine. Two spoonfuls of honey, a splash of cream. He stirs exactly three times, the silver making soft circles in the silence.
A maid approaches with a fresh tray of croissants. Her steps are measured, soft soles against the marble. Her ruby—a faded, diluted thing—glows faintly at her throat as she passes me. Our eyes meet for half a second before hers dart away.
The fury I’ve been keeping on a leash snaps taut, fed by every tremor in Dom’s fingers, every flicker of fear from the staff, every erratic pulse from the fractured ruby at my throat. It’s all a noose tightening around my throat, and I’m starting to forget how to breathe through it.
Footsteps echo through the hall—sharp, deliberate clicks mingled with feminine giggles trailing behind.
Servants scatter like startled vermin, and Dom goes still as Kian strides in, silk robe hanging open, his hair deliciously mussed.
A stunning redhead clings to him, swimming in one of his dress shirts, her lips fastened to his neck.
“Well,” he drawls, voice slithering across the room, “if this isn’t the fucking picture of domesticity.” His smile splits his face wide, feral and gleaming, as her hand disappears beneath his robe. He doesn’t pause, just snaps his fingers. “Coffee. Hot this time.”
The girl gasps when he grabs her wrist mid-grope.
“That’s enough sampling for today, kitten.” He lands a sharp smack on her ass that echoes through the dining room. “Run along now. Smoke will see to your payment.”
I can’t help but stare as she pouts, clearly wanting to stay, but another stern look sends her scurrying away, the shirt barely covering anything.
Kian turns to me, catching the disgust I don’t bother to hide and laughs.
“What?” He sprawls into his chair. “You think a man builds an empire of vices without sampling the stock? If I’m going to put my name on a body, I’d better damn well know if it moans or fakes it.” His eyes glitter with malice. “Quality control is everything in this business.”
The implication sinks claws into me. My eyes snap to Dom, stomach churning at the thought of him “testing” girls for The Den. Something must show on my face because Kian’s laughter turns cruel.
“Oh, don’t fret, dear future daughter. Your precious lover boy here hasn’t dipped into the merchandise. Wouldn’t even touch a club girl without your permission. He’s disgustingly loyal that way. Though I’ve tried to teach him better business practices.”
Dom’s hand finds my knee under the table. I shift away, the touch grating against my already frayed nerves. His hurt expression only feeds the guilt simmering in my chest.
“Now where is my damn coffee!” Kian roars, slamming his hand on the table. “By the time it arrives, the gods will return, judgment will fall, and I’ll still be sitting here with a limp dick and dry mouth. Though I suppose apocalyptic destruction might actually speed up the service around here.”
A maid hurries forward, carafe trembling. He stares her down as she pours, his smile all teeth. He bumps her elbow, and coffee sloshes onto the white linen.
“Oh dear,” he says mockingly. “How clumsy of you. That’ll come out of your pay. Along with the last three tablecloths you fucked up.”
He dismisses her with a flick of his fingers, already bored and searching for his next target.
“Father.” Dom’s voice grits through clenched teeth. He reaches for my hand again and I curl my fingers into fists beneath the table.
“What?” Kian knocks over a crystal glass, watching it shatter with childlike delight. “Accidents happen. Don’t they, sweetheart?” His gaze cuts to the maid now kneeling on the marble. “Like that nasty burn on your wrist from last week’s . . . mishap.”
Dom tries to press a strawberry to my lips, his gesture of comfort making me more pissed. I turn my face away, and Kian’s smirk sharpens.
“Speaking of accidents—look who’s vertical! And so . . . changed.” His fingers tap bone china in a jagged rhythm that makes the servants flinch. “Tell me, any interesting side effects from your brush with death? Unnatural cravings? Sudden homicidal tendencies?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I say coolly, keeping my voice level while Dom’s grip dents the table’s edge, “since no one’s explained what happened to me while I was unconscious.”
“Suspicious little thing.” Kian chuckles, deliberately tipping the sugar bowl until crystals spill. “Though I suppose near-death experiences can make one paranoid.”
“The hybrid that attacked me—”
“Was a tragic accident.” His voice drips with false sympathy.
“Though your recovery? Nothing short of miraculous. Vale’s team outdid themselves.
” He turns to a shaking maid. “Speaking of divine miracles, where the fuck are my eggs? Did we raise the chicken ourselves and walk it through therapy first?”
“Do you really have to—” Dom tries to speak, but Kian slices the air with a hand.
“What?” His eyes flash. “Should I lower my standards? Let incompetence fester just to preserve the feelings of our waitstaff?” He gestures at the wreckage he created. “This is what happens when we stop punishing failure. People get comfortable and then they get sloppy.”
A maid hurries forward to clean the mess, and Kian’s foot hooks around her ankle. She stumbles hard, barely catching herself on Dom’s chair.
“Careful now,” he tuts. “We wouldn’t want you falling into my son’s lap. Though that wouldn’t be the first time a servant has tried to seduce their way up the ranks, would it?”
Her face goes scarlet as she scrambles away. The silver fork warps in Dom’s grip, metal straining with the force he refuses to release.
“Now then.” Kian swivels back. “Where were we? Ah yes, your miraculous recovery. Tell me, does anything feel different? Besides the obvious enhancement to your backbone.” He drops his voice to a conspiratorial hush.
“I must say, watching you resist my son’s rather pathetic attempts at affection this morning is fascinating. ”
Dom’s teacup explodes in his grip.
“Oh, sensitive subject? How marvelous!” Kian claps, delighted. “Nothing like relationship drama to spice up breakfast.” He snaps his fingers without looking. “Someone clean up my son’s latest display of emotional instability and bring him another cup. Preferably one he can’t turn into a weapon.”
“Stop it,” I snap, reaching for Dom’s hand. “We are fine.”
“Oh, are you now?” Kian purrs. “He’s got such a tender heart under all that curated brutality. Be a real tragedy if it were his downfall.”
I lean into Dom’s touch, letting my head rest against his shoulder. His surprise shows in the slight catch of his breath.
“We’re perfect,” I whisper, lips grazing the edge of his jaw, while his pulse leaps beneath the touch.
Dom shifts, mouth brushing softly over my hair. “What are you doing?” he whispers. “One minute you’re cold, the next . . .” His fingers curl around my hip. “Something’s wrong.”
I don’t answer. I just keep up the performance. Let Kian see what he wants to see: a pliant fiancée. A happy puppet. A weapon still dancing in its velvet box.
“Now then,” Kian drawls, reclining as if none of this matters.
“About today’s agenda. The Whispersilk spread needs to sparkle.
We can’t have Eclipsera’s most eligible bachelor looking anything less than dick-drunk with adoration.
” His smile carves straight through my composure.
“Though after your little meltdown in that charming interview, perhaps it’s safer to keep our firecracker off camera. ”
“I have meetings,” Dom mutters, but Kian waves him off.
“Cancel them. This takes priority. The public needs reassurance that at least one of you is committed to this union. Besides”—his eyes find mine, glinting with cold mirth—” what could possibly be more important than salvaging your charming bride’s reputation?
” He tilts his head, expression curdling into something darker.
“Next time, darling, stick to the talking points I provide. In the future, your punishment might not be so gentle, and losing such a good man like Raze to your childish tantrum was such a shame.”
My fingers tighten around the teacup. The porcelain clicks too sharply against its saucer when I set it down, but I can’t help it. Raze’s death is the presence at the table, and Kian knows exactly where to press that bruise.
“Any objections to our plans, sweetheart?” His gaze never wavers. “Or are we all playing nice this morning?”
I meet his stare, my smile poisonous. “Of course not. Everything sounds perfect.”
“There’s a good girl.” The words are a purr. “We’ll make a proper Blackwood of you yet.”
The dining room doors creak open again and Octavia glides in without a word. Her black silk dress whispers against marble as she claims her seat.
“Darling.” Kian’s voice carries none of the warmth he uses when tormenting us. He brushes his lips against her cheek, a gesture that looks almost violent in its formality. “I trust you’ll keep an eye on our newest addition while Dominic and I handle today’s obligations?”
Octavia’s smile is immaculate. “Of course. Though I suspect Aria no longer requires a chaperone.”
“Daddy!” Margaux’s voice cuts through the tension as she saunters in, a vision of chaos wrapped in couture.
Her dress matches Octavia’s in color, but that’s where the similarity ends.
Where Octavia wears control, Margaux wears sin.
“You’re stealing my favorite brother already?
I was hoping we could have a proper family breakfast. How cruel. ”
“Your only brother,” Dom mutters.
Kian’s face softens just a touch as Margaux leans in to kiss his cheek. “Princess.” The endearment carries genuine warmth. “I’d never rob you of your quality time, but duty calls.”
“It always does.” She rolls her eyes and claims the seat beside me, draping one leg over the other.
“Though I suppose someone has to make sure he looks pretty for the cameras.” She smirks at Dom.
“Remember that disaster shoot last year? When they asked you to look ‘less murderous’ and more ‘approachably dangerous’?”
Despite it all, my lips twitch. Dom had stormed into The Den that day, fully prepared to set the place on fire.
“Yes, well,” Kian cuts in, rising smoothly. “We can’t all be screen-ready degenerates like you. Up, son.”
Dom rises slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. I see the protest building in his throat, the way he wants to fight this separation. But Kian’s hand lands heavily on his shoulder, and we both know what disobedience costs.
“I’ll be fine,” I say softly, forcing another smile. “Go. Make the city fall in love with you all over again.”
He steps toward me, and for a moment I think he’ll kiss me, but Kian’s fingers dig deeper, and Dom settles for brushing my hair back instead. The touch feels like goodbye.
“Margaux,” Kian calls as he steers Dom toward the exit, “try not to let your mother bury our bride in tulle and trauma. I’d like her to make it to the ceremony in one piece.”
“No promises,” Margaux sings, tapping her nails against her cup in a rhythm too precise to be casual. “You know how Mother gets when fabric’s involved.”
Kian pauses at the threshold, turning back with that devastating charm that makes him so dangerous. “Oh, and Aria? Be good while we’re gone. We’ve only just gotten you housebroken.”
The doors seal behind them with terrible finality. Octavia immediately rises, leaving the room in a rush, while Margaux watches me with calculating eyes.