Page 29 of Savage Surrender

Guests mingle. Booming conversations and warm laughter. The clink of glass. The pop of a champagne bottle.

It doesn’t take long before I feel my father’s presence at the edge of the room. He stands near the bar in a tux, sipping his usual. His eyes catch mine and sharpen.

Two fingers lift and he beckons me.

Come here.

The gesture of my childhood. The one that ends with me in front of his desk while he explains, in detail, what I have done to embarrass or disappoint him.

I hold his stare, then I shake my head.

No.

My father’s face does not change. The hand around his glass goes perfectly still. He takes two measured steps toward our table before security glides into his path. For once, the men standing between us do not belong to him.

Vincent holds court near the windows, one hand in his pocket while a cluster of men lean in to hear him.

Alexander has two giggling women on his arms. One I recognize from company meetings... Felicity, maybe? But the other is unfamiliar. Tristan’s mother is not here, but we knew she was out of the country.

The fathers of the three men we killed stand in the space between Vincent’s circle and Alexander’s, close enough to belong to either.

By the time the first course arrives, my father, Vincent, and Alexander have taken their assigned seats. The chair beside Alexander stays empty, CHARLES MILLER printed on the place card.

Colleen has been silent for too long.

The meal continues in careful rounds. Wine. Champagne. Courses made for photographs rather than hunger. None of us touches the alcohol.

Bianca rearranges food on her plate while she studies the room. I watch her notice the same thing I did: omegas scattered among the guests, and children. An extraordinary number of children in miniature formal wear, velvet bows and shiny shoes, eating bread beneath tables while their parents toast at the right moment during speeches.

A man near the stage rises to praise Montgomery’s genius, generosity, and three decades of service to omega health. The room drinks with an enthusiasm that feels less like gratitude than liturgy.

Tristan draws his chair back, looks over at Bianca, and pats his thigh.

“You cannot be serious.”

“Sweetheart.” He makes the word luxuriously patient. “There are one hundred and forty-three people in this room. One hundred and thirty of them are alphas, and every single one is looking at my mate like she is the dessert course. I am providing accurate signage.”

“Signage.”

“So come sit down, Omega.”

She does.

Blue silk spills over the black of his pants when she settles on his lap and over his thighs. His arm closes around her waist as though this was always the intended seating arrangement.

His scent changes immediately. Burnt amber and fig deepen into something rich and smug, rolling from him in slow waves: an alpha announcing to every alpha in the room that he possesses what they want and none of them will ever touch her. He lifts his chin and lets his eyes go half-lidded, displaying her with the lazy confidence other men reserve for watches or cars.

He knows exactly what he is broadcasting.

The other men in this room are only his first audience.

His second is sitting at this table, and he is driving all three of us insane on purpose.

His hand finds the slit in her dress with suspicious accuracy. His fingers slide through to bare thigh. Slowly. His thumb passes over a scar and continues upward while the room churns around us.

“Everyone is watching,” he murmurs into Bianca’s hair, delighted, “and you are soaked. I find those facts fascinating in combination. Shall we discuss my theories?”

“I will stab you with a salad fork.”