Bonds of Hate: A Dark Reverse Harem Omegaverse Romance, page 26
Cillian chokes on a laugh, almost spitting out a mouthful of champagne. “That’s a creative compromise, but I doubt Logan would go for it.”
I smirk, proud of myself for temporarily breaking his stiffly dignified mask. “Bonus point, they get the pleasure of ripping my pants off of me while in a rut without destroying them. That’s just fiscally responsible.”
He just shakes his head. “You are funny. I’ll give you that.”
“I aim to please.”
“How typically Omega of you.” He reaches across me for the champagne bottle tucked in an ice bucket stand next to my chair and refills both our glasses. “Keep it up and you might actually survive.”
A soft scent unexpectedly wafts over me, reminiscent of baby powder and lilies. Betas don’t produce pheromones, so it must be his cologne. But it’s not quite like any other fragrance I’ve encountered before, especially when men usually favor muskier notes. My nostrils flare as I instinctively inhale more deeply. The scent lingers in my nose even after he pulls away, leaving me with that feeling you get when you need to sneeze and the motion just won’t come.
Is it normal to taste cologne?
The attendant distracts me by pushing a pile of fabric into my arms and hustling me toward a curtained dressing room.
When I glance back, Cillian is watching me with an unblinking gaze.
Cillian directs us back to the apartment when we return to the palace, despite how late it is. A servant will deliver the shopping bags filling up the back of the SUV, but Cillian insists the others will want to see the flowing pink sundress I wore out of the store.
As we approach Logan’s quarters, raucous laughter echoes down the hall.
“What the hell?” Cillian mutters.
We find Logan, Ares and Poe sprawled across the furniture in the sunken living room area, looking like they’ve made themselves entirely too comfortable. Logan has commandeered the largest leather couch, while Ares’s massive frame takes up an entire loveseat, leaving no room to spare. Poe perches on the arm of a chair like some watchful raven, his dark eyes tracking our entrance but without that unnerving intensity of his I’ve come to expect.
“Seven!” Logan slams down a card. “Everyone drinks!”
Ares tips back his glass while Poe groans. “That’s the fifth time you’ve played that card.”
“Maybe you’re just drunk enough to see double,” Logan snickers.
“Or you’re a damn cheater.”
“You say cheating, and I hear royal privileges.”
They sound more relaxed than I’ve ever heard, practically jovial. The empty liquor bottles and beer cans scattered across the coffee table make it clear why that is.
Ares gestures for me to come closer. “Show us the goods, love.”
They give me appropriate oohs and aahs as I give a little twirl, so the skirt flares up a few inches above my knees. The positive attention is gratifying, especially when it’s missing the sardonic edge that seems to color every interaction I have with them.
But drunken Alphas are even more potentially dangerous than sober ones. Sure, drinking enough liquor to kill a normal person makes them pleasant in the short-term, but there is no telling when the mood will turn.
I give them a coy smile. “Enjoy your evening, gentleman.”
“Wait!” Ares says with a manic grin, eyes lit up from. “Come play with us.”
I drift back toward the door. “It’s getting late—“
“Sit.” Logan’s command freezes me mid-step. He pats the space next to him on the couch. “Right here.”
Cillian bows low. “Duty calls. I’ll leave you all to it.”
“Stay,” Logan orders. “You’re playing, too.”
I slowly approach the couch as Poe deals me in. The cards are worn smooth from use, decorated with intricate designs I don’t recognize.
“The rules are simple.” Ares hands me a crystal tumbler of amber liquid. “Each card has an action. Get it wrong and you drink.”
“And if I get it right?”
“Everyone else drinks.” Logan’s predatory grin makes my stomach flip. “Hope you can hold your liquor, little Omega.”
I eye the glass in my hand. The liquid burns my nose — definitely not watered-down at all. Getting drunk around these Alphas seems like a spectacularly bad idea.
Good thing I know something they don’t.
Logan’s thigh presses against mine as I settle into the seat next to him. His arm drapes across the back of the couch behind me, fingers teasing my bare shoulder.
I give him a small smile. “Deal me in.”
The next few rounds pass in a blur of laughter and increasingly outrageous challenges. They make no secret of their attempts to trap me into being the one who drinks with every turn. I take each shot without complaint, letting the burn ease down my throat and settle warmly in the pit of my stomach.
The Alphas get progressively more intoxicated.
“Jack!” Poe slaps down a card. “Truth or dare.”
“Truth,” I say, earning groans from the others.
“Boring.” Logan’s fingers trace patterns on my shoulder. “Make it good, Poe.”
Poe’s dark eyes glitter too brightly. He seems to struggle with focusing his gaze on my face. “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
My eyes burn as dizzying spirals through my mind. Those memories don’t have any place here, especially not right now.
“Pass.” I lift my glass in a mock toast. “I’ll drink instead.”
“No fun at all,” Ares complains, swaying slightly as he pushes the deck toward me. “Your turn, princess.”
I draw a card and flip it over. A queen stares back at me with knowing eyes.
“How appropriate. Queen means questions,” Logan explains, his speech obviously slurred. “You ask someone a question. They have to answer with another question. First person who makes a statement or repeats a question drinks.”
I turn to Cillian, who’s been oddly subdued. Despite keeping the same pace, he seems noticeably less intoxicated than the others.
“Why do you smell like flowers today?” I ask him.
His ice-chip eyes narrow. “What makes you think you can ask me that?”
“Are you wearing perfume?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Why does that matter to you?”
“Are you going to answer yes or no?”
“Will you give me a reason I should?”
The corner of my mouth lifts in a slight smile. “Should I be concerned about what the smell really is?”
Cillian’s jaw tightens. He lifts his glass and drinks deeply, ending the round.
Logan’s arm tenses behind me. He leans forward to refill our glasses, spilling several times before he accomplishes the task. “Who’s next?”
Ares is the first to pass out, his massive frame slumped over the chair arm like a felled tree. Two rounds later, Poe falls off his chair and then stomps off to bed before anyone can laugh at him.
Cillian drains his glass and sets it down with a decisive clink. “I think the party is over.”
Logan regards me with glassy eyes. For a terrifying moment, I think he is about to tell me to stay here for the night.
Instead, Logan lurches to his feet, swaying dangerously. “Time for bed.”
I practically leap up from the couch, eager to escape before he changes his mind. I’m almost at the door when Cillian’s hand closes around my arm. “I’ll escort you back.”
“I can find my own way,” I insist, but his grip doesn’t loosen.
“Palace rules. No Omega walks alone after dark.”
Logan waves a dismissive hand from where he is struggling to navigate around the furniture without tripping over it. “Make sure she gets there safely.”
The palace corridors are empty and silent because of the lateness of the hour. I get the feeling Cillian has something he wants to say, and he doesn’t disappoint me.
“You seem remarkably steady considering how much you drank.”
“I didn’t dump it all in a plant when no one was looking, if that’s what you’re implying.” I wave my hand at his own balanced stride as we walk. “You seemed to do okay yourself, considering.”
He frowns. “I’m bigger than you.”
I chuckle. “Ares is twice your size, and he’s sleeping under a table right now.”
“They were already wasted when we showed up.”
I worry at the edge of my nail with my teeth, choosing my next words carefully. “Omegas have a pretty high tolerance for alcohol. Nobody seems to know the biological reason for it, but it’s basically impossible for us to get drunk.”
He blanches. “I didn’t know that.”
“It’s not really common knowledge outside of the Enclave, I guess. The first time we managed to get a bottle of vodka smuggled in, it was gone in about ten minutes.”
The rest of our walk is made in silence, but Cillian grabs my arm to stop me short as we reach the doors of the harem. Two guards are posted, but they stare straight ahead without acknowledging us. He spares a glance for them, assessing.
“You’re very observant,” he says finally. “Probably too observant.”
“Should I pretend to be stupid instead?”
His fingers dig into my arm. “You should be careful what questions you ask. And who you ask them to.”
“Is that a threat?”
“A warning.” He releases my arm and rubs his palm against his slacks as if the touch of my skin left a residue behind. “It’s dangerous to involve yourself in things you don’t understand.”
I rub my arm where his grip left an aching sensation. “Everything that happens here concerns me now. I’m part of this pack, whether you like it or not.”
“You’re not pack.” His ice-blue eyes bore into mine. “You’re a temporary convenience. A political tool. Nothing more. It isn’t possible for you to be anything more.”
“Then why are you so worried about what I might discover?”
For a moment, something like fear flashes across his face. Then his expression hardens. “Goodnight, Maya.”
He abruptly strides away before I can respond, leaving behind air subtly perfumed with the scent of fresh laundry.
Chapter Twenty-One
LOGAN
Idrum my fingers on the polished mahogany, watching the gilded clock tick past the meeting’s start time. Maya had been the one to suggest that she arrive fashionably late in order to make a statement, but this is getting ridiculous.
My father sits at the head of the long table and I’ve taken the position at his right hand, the second-most powerful position in the room. But the seat next to mine on my other side is empty and I don’t miss the curious glances that the king’s advisors and my brothers cast my way.
Brothers through shared DNA only. It’s difficult to see them as much more than my competition.
There are at least ten of them attending this meeting, the ones with the age and experience to potentially take over for our shared patriarch. The fact that he still has not officially named an heir sits inside of me like a raw wound.
Most of the others have pretty Omegas with vapid expressions standing obediently behind them.
Only my Omega has a seat at the table and the bitch isn’t even here to fill it.
Each one of my brothers represents one of the great houses of Melilla, who all gifted precious daughters to the harem in order to cement their allegiance with the king. With Ander gone, I’m one of the only princes left who represents the house that has ruled the capital for hundreds of years.
House Corellian, may it never die.
Choosing me as his heir would uphold a long tradition. But unrest has been rising in parts of the country, rebellious factions questioning if the king on his far-flung throne truly represents their interests. Naming one of my brothers who shares blood with his loudest critics might be the more politically expedient choice.
And if that happens, it might as well be a death sentence for me and mine.
Nikolai sits directly across from me, the friendly and open expression on his face so entirely punchable. Looking at him, it’s impossible not to picture him with his arms wrapped around Maya on the dance floor. I have to clench my thighs against the chair in an effort not to launch across the table and knock his teeth down his throat.
Nikolai’s flame-haired Omega stands closely behind him with her hands resting gently on his shoulders. Her eyes are appropriately downcast, but a smug smile teases at the corners of her lips.
Show-off.
Marcus and Stefan, both of House Ondraste, also have their Omegas behind them. Mating contracts are signed, with ceremonies pending, but neither of them has bonded yet. Though it’s only a matter of time.
Three chairs down, Xavier of House Docain practically lounges in his seat. He likes to act like the crown is already on his head, despite being the laziest person I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.
But the Omega sitting in his lap is visibly pregnant. They’ve been bonded since last spring and wasted absolutely no time. I don’t miss the way my father keeps glancing their way without bothering to conceal his obvious approval.
The stink of my anger catches the king’s attention.
He turns to me with a sardonic smile. “And where is your Omega, my son? I thought I had made it clear I expected her to attend.”
I swallow back my annoyance. “I must beg your indulgence on her behalf. She wanted to take special care of her appearance for your majesty’s pleasure.”
Any sop to his pride will almost always ease the king’s ire. Leopold smiles widely. The thought of his son’s Omega primping for his benefit is enough to excuse her late arrival.
He smirks. “Let’s hope I’m impressed enough for her tardiness to be worth the effort.”
I hope to hell it is. That we’re waiting on an Omega at all is a watershed moment. I pray to whatever deity will listen that my father doesn’t run out of patience and order us both to be killed.
Xavier’s drawl echoes down the table. “I was under the impression this meeting began at four.”
Others grumble in echo of that sentiment, until King Leopold raises a single hand demanding silence.
“I was not aware that my schedule rested on the sufferance of anyone here,” he chides. He leans slightly closer, voice dropping low enough not to carry. “Though I find that my patience is rarely infinite.”
The murmured warning might as well be a fire alarm.
I grip the armrests of my chair, forcing myself to appear relaxed while scanning the faces around the table. Most of my competition sits here. Being embarrassed in front of them is painful to contemplate. The thought of a public shaming is excruciating.
Whispers pick back up and I don’t miss the glances shot my way. It isn’t paranoia to assume that I, and my errant Omega, have become the topic of every conversation.
Nikolai casts me a sympathetic look, with no evidence of subterfuge that should definitely be there. The man has always been too soft, never seemed to have the stomach for the violence necessary to succeed at court. His position as eldest keeps him mostly safe from the rest of us.
If he ever decides to give up the good guy act, then I would be more worried about him as a threat than almost anyone else. Luckily for me, his new Omega acts more like an Alpha than he does.
And luckily for her, I only commit violence against women when they beg me for it.
The massive doors creak open and all conversations halt.
Maya glides in wearing a properly decorous navy dress with a sweetheart neckline that hugs her curves. Her hair is artfully piled on her head with a few face-framing strands. It’s one of those styles meant to seem carefree, but likely took a hundred pins to create. Her make up is conservative, but well-done, highlighting her best features rather than creating a calculating distraction.
Heads turn to follow her progress. Several unbonded princes shift in their seats, their scents spiking with interest. I bare my teeth in their direction. She’s mine. At least until I say otherwise.
Annoyance rises as I survey her up and down. The hair and dress are nice, but not anything that might require hours of effort and wasting the king’s time. If we survive my father’s reaction, then I’ll make sure whatever I do to her next makes this embarrassment worth it.
Then she turns enough as if searching for an ideal path around the table and I get a look at her back.
My jaw drops before I think to clamp it shut.
As demure as the high neckline, cinched waist and flared skirt appear from the front, that is where propriety ends. The dress has a plunging back, revealing an expanse of flawless skin all the way down to the alluring dimpled flesh at her lower spine. Practically a scandalous amount of skin for an Omega who supposedly has a mate. But that isn’t what has the room frozen in shock, myself included.
Golden threads crisscross her back in an intricate pattern, so fine that the work had to have been done when she already had the dress on, because even the slightest tension would make the threads snap. She must have enlisted the help of a servant, then spent hours standing perfectly still while they carefully created a design as intricate and delicate as a spider’s web that is destined for destruction by the end of the day.
It takes me another few seconds to realize that the pattern is recognizable. The crest of House Corellian, my house and the house of my father, glows against her skin in shiny gold as if it’s been tattooed there.
Marking herself for them all to see. Declaring who she belongs to.
Maya approaches the king with measured steps, her eyes demurely lowered. When she reaches his side, she sinks into a graceful curtsy.
“My deepest apologies for my tardiness, your majesty.” Her voice carries just the right note of contrition, though her smile is easy. If she acts too much like she thinks she deserves to be chastised, then it’s more likely the king will decide to do just that.
The girl is a fucking natural.
Leopold beams as he signals her to rise. Beams. An expression I’ve never seen on his face before.
“Think nothing of it, my dear. It appears the juice was very much worth the squeeze,” he assures with an appreciative smile. “In fact, give us all a spin to see this lovely handiwork.”
