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“What was the Blackthroat estate like?” Brayden asks between bites of leftover pecan pie.
“I didn’t see the property because of the blizzard, but the cottage was built in the Gilded Age. It’s a forty-four room mansion with giant stone fireplaces and ornate carved wood trim.” I got some of those details from Brick’s mom, Catherine, when we chatted in the living room.
My mom’s lips turn down with judgment. Sometimes I forget where I get my love-hate relationship with money. My mom is one of those people, like Aubrey, who believe all rich people are greedy, environment-destroying, anti-socialist assholes who make their money by stomping on the backs of the underprivileged. I know her relationship with my biological father contributed greatly to that view.
I’ve embraced that philosophy for the most part, except I also secretly enjoy money. I like my new six-figure salary–although I’m regretting asking him to double it. His entire executive team now knows that I’ve slept with him, so getting a hundred thousand dollar raise probably won’t sit well with any of them.
My pride would be wounded having people think I slept my way to a raise rather than worked my ass off for it.
I did like wearing a twenty thousand dollar gown to a charity ball, even though it wasn’t me. It was fun to play the part for the night. To ride in the limo and the helicopter. All of it has been fun to experience, even if it’s just to laugh and make fun of the rich behind their backs. I’m not bedazzled by Blackthroat’s wealth, but I definitely enjoy the perks.
I guess there’s something inauthentic about my own relationship with money. A conflict I haven’t figured out how to resolve. I try to remind myself that money isn’t real. It is power Blackthroat and the old bluebloods wield, and power can be abused or used for good. Rejecting it altogether doesn’t fix or resolve social injustice or disparities between the classes.
“I can’t believe you just ordered up his helicopter. Are you allowed to use it for other things?”
“No. God no. I only did it because it was an emergency. Blackthroat was definitely pissed. Although I guess he was more mad about how dangerous it was with the blizzard than the liberties I took ordering it.”
My mom goes still and stares at me with a look of alarm.
Crap on a cracker. Now she probably suspects there’s something more to our relationship than assistant-boss.
“Only because it meant I got stranded there and had to join his family for Thanksgiving,” I add quickly. As I say the words that I know will reassure and redirect my mom, I realize how much her thinking influenced me in that moment when Blackthroat blew up at me. That was the conclusion I jumped to, rather than the one in which my boss secretly cared about my safety and was cranky that I put myself in danger.
But maybe the latter is just a Cinderella fantasy. It’s honestly hard for me to discern which statement is more true. I’m too involved in this situation to trust my own sense of deduction and logic.
“Yeah, how was that?” Brayden asks.
“Awkward. Super awkward. I’m glad to be home.” Sort of.
Obviously, Brick wanted me gone. This was nothing but a fling. Sure, we got close for one second, but in the end, we’re from different worlds. He’s a billionaire. I’m the help. We’re boss-employee. His family home over the holidays was no place for me to be.
So, I left the Berkshires–and not because Billy White ran me out. I left because I knew it was the safest choice for my heart. Developing any expectations of Blackthroat that can be easily dashed is a recipe for disaster. And I’m far too careful a planner for foibles like that.
Tomorrow, I plan to go in and pretend nothing ever happened. Back to being the perfect assistant to the big bad boss.
* * *
Brick
My private sports club is a lot like any other upscale gym, with one main difference. Everyone here is a shifter.
There’s a werelion in the corner, swinging a kettlebell. Another two shifters–one smelling like a cat and the other like a bull or maybe buffalo–spotting each other at the bench press.
And a werebear in the boxing ring across from me.
The air is thick and humid with the scent of shifters and good, clean sweat. The place echoes with snarls and the occasional roar.
Like the rest of the gym, the fighting ring has a rule: no animal forms allowed. If you want to let your animal out, you do so on private land. Anyone losing control like that gets kicked out. But I can feel my wolf testing my control, trying to break free.
A bell rings, and I launch myself towards my opponent. He comes out swinging. We meet in the middle of the ring, jabbing and punching while keeping light on our feet.
He sneaks a strike past my defenses, and my body rocks with the blow. Pain washes through me, and I relish it. Anything to distract from the empty feeling that’s gnawed on my insides since Thanksgiving.
My opponent is Darius Medevev, CEO of an up-and-coming hedge fund and good friend. My top wolves–Billy, Nickel, Jake, Vance and Sully–are all members here, but I came in this morning because I knew they were already at the office. I haven’t wanted to see them since they faced me down in the snow and told me to send Madi away.
I hike back my fist and let it fly. Darius takes the punch, grunts, and gives it back as good as he gets. He’s over six feet tall and built. The perfect opponent, except my wolf wishes it were Billy in the ring.
Get rid of Madison, he said, before she brings this entire pack down.
