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She only nodded at me, a placative smile.
“Remember what I taught you. Take what you want in this life. This world is yours to command.” The limo door opened, but I didn’t move. Instead, I pinched her chin, forcing her eyes to me. “Summer. Promise me you will give them my name.”
She stared into my eyes, big beautiful blue ones I wanted to drown in—that I was already drowning in. She bit her lower lip, giving me a firm nod. “Yes.”
“That’s my good bunny,” I murmured, brushing my lips over hers softly, before putting on my own wolf mask. I stood, giving the man in the gray suit a stark look. He took a few steps back and, steeling myself for the night to come, I held out my hand and Summer took it.
I helped her out of the car.
She was stunning in her midnight purple gown. Cut low enough to show the curves of her cleavage, with the bottom layers of flowing tulle and lace magnolia flowers stitched into the design.
She gracefully moved with me as we entered the building, directed towards the Forsythe Antechamber, the room where everyone waited to be introduced. Even though her outward appearance was calm, I could tell by the way she was squeezing my hand that she was nervous.
“I’m here with you the whole way,” I whispered as we waited for our turn, putting my hands on her hips and tugging her to me so that I was all she could see. “Listen to me. Do exactly as I say. And everything will be perfect. Besides,” I brushed my thumb across her cheek, “you’re easily the most beautiful person in the room. The men and women will fall at your feet to be noticed by you.”
Her lips twisted in a small but nervous smile. “Stop.”
“Summer,” I commanded, my voice low and demanding, “you may be dressed as my little bunny, but tonight, you are a wolf in disguise. They want something from you, and that means you have all the power. You only have to take it. Use it. You are in control, not them.”
Her throat bobbed, but she nodded, straightening, her eyes hardening.
“Summer Duvall,” a loud voice boomed through the room.
She took in a deep breath and looked towards the entrance to the ballroom with a confident look. “Okay. I’m ready.”
Smiling at how much my little bunny had grown, I led her towards the large, arched doorway. Despite my words to her, I was watching everyone and everything. Nothing was safe here, despite the opulence of the room.
We stopped in front of Aldric Vortigern, the official bishop presiding over the Protestant churches of Lowcountry—where anyone who was anybody attended. A chill climbed up my back as I watched him make the sign of the cross over Summer. Though I had no dealing with the man, I never trusted him.
He mumbled a prayer while brushing his thumb, dipped in oil, across her forehead.
Fallon, who was dressed in his official cassock and without a mask, stood to the side of the bishop, a cold, indifferent look on his face. He didn’t look at me, or acknowledge Summer in any way.
A man stood next to him, holding an iPad and wearing a black plague doctor mask. It concealed his whole face and hair. He was the Lorekeeper, the man in charge of the official record keeping for the Veritas. His identity was kept a strict secret. He watched Summer carefully, then, once Bishop Vortigern was done, turned away and towards the next person behind us.
“Straighten your back and smile. Look people in the eyes.” I directed her as we stepped from the platform, down the stairs, and into the vast, sweeping ballroom. All eyes were on us. At my direction, she seemed to relax a little, though she was clutching my hand. But she moved gracefully, as if she was born for this. "No one will hurt you," I growled low, "I'll make sure of it."
She inhaled a deep breath and nodded as a group of people gathered at the base of the stairs, looking up at her expectantly, whispering, "I trust you."
Satisfaction hummed through me, honored to have her trust.
As soon as we stepped from the stairs, I led her through the throng of people—men trying to capture her attention and women eyeing her enviously. I saw and felt everything, my gaze sweeping the room for Saul.
I spied Olivia Dubois standing in front of the group of girls of various ages, from as young as about five to early twenties.
They were beautifully dressed in expensive, elegant white dresses that reached up to their neck and down the length of their arms and legs. The younger ones wore silk masks over their eyes while the older ones’ faces were shrouded by ornate lace veils.
They exuded innocence. Virtue. Chastity.
My stomach churned at the sight, disgust filling me.
Maidens—the girls chosen to be brides to the men in the Veritas.
They were here on display for the public to see—for all to adore and worship. Some even came to stand before them, bowing or curtseying—as if they were royalty.
They were to be praised. Cherished. To remain untainted by the stain of worldly treasures.
Quiet. Obedient. Dulcet.
