“Mm,” says our hostess for the evening, the Viscountess Arabella Ratherford. She’s far from my favorite person because years ago, there was some unpleasantness that involved her attempting to strong-arm me into a match with her favorite nephew. On a good night, her face resembles that of a raisin that’s been pharmaceutically smoothed out, but she’s looking particularly tight-lipped this evening. “And do you have a date in mind? I can’t help noticing that you are still”—her nose crinkles slightly—“impaired, Alfred.”
I flounder for a moment, unsure how to respond. She’s being incredibly rude, and evidently, I haven’t thought through this part of the ruse in enough detail. Fortunately, Jensen has no such issue. He drops his gaze demurely, cheeks flushing prettily as he finishes for me. “We’re…we’re waiting until my next heat to mate.”
When he says it, I drift to a strange, pleasant place where that’s a reality. Where people meet, wait for heats, and mate with foresight and planning. For a moment, I’m lost to it, to the daydream of planning such a thing. Expecting it. Anticipating it. Looking forward to it and knowing, deep in your heart, that your search is over.
Though the notion is filmy and soft, a blurry daydream that exists in pale shades of pink in my mind, the pain it causes me is a blade to the side.
The viscountess’s lips pull even tighter. “How romantic,” she says, jolting me from cotton candy dreams and unceremoniously dumping me back into reality.
From there, she draws me into an exceedingly dull conversation that I have a hard time removing myself from. At some point during the exchange, the little mouse makes his excuses and makes a run for it. I can’t say I blame him.
When I finally manage to extricate myself, I look around to find Jensen. I spot him near the bar almost at once. He has a glass of bubbles in his hand and an animated expression on his face. He’s talking to a group of omegas, and by the look of things, he has them eating out of the palm of his hand. I can’t make out what he’s saying from here because the music is too loud, but I can pick out the tone of his voice over the din. It’s soft yet melodical. Quiet yet full of presence.
I weave through people to get to him, zig-zagging to avoid running into anyone who might slow me. As I make my final approach, I do so from his left. He has his face turned away from me, his attention fixed on the omega he’s talking to.
The omega in question is Jerome Maxwell. He’s a fine-boned, petite boy who is widely considered to be quite the catch. Sapphire blue eyes glisten and a mop of golden curls bounces as he laughs at whatever Jensen just said.
The closer I get to the bar, the more hurried I feel. By the time I’m a few meters away, I’m a little out of breath.
“Excuse me,” I say, stepping around the last person standing in my way without making eye contact with them. They sense my urgency and clear my path. As they do, my field of vision clears and Jensen appears in it. A tall and lanky vision dripping in diamonds and black lace. He’s holding his champagne glass gracefully, pinky slightly extended.
As I take in the image, I notice Jerome’s arm.
It’s pressed against Jensen’s from his elbow to his shoulder. He’s leaning in, closer than he needs to. Much closer. And he’s smiling at Jensen with unmistakable intensity.
Air leaves my lungs as though it’s been sucked into a vortex and rushes back even faster. My lungs expand suddenly, my pulse skyrocketing.
My fists clench hard.
So do my teeth.
The growl that finds its way out of me rises from the earth beneath me, traveling up my arms and legs, meeting at my core, and barreling out of my chest with such venom that champagne glasses and crystal pendeloquesclinkall around me.
Jerome leaps back, clutching his hands to his throat, eyes wide with fright.
“Darling,” says Jensen, dragging out the word slightly, “there you are.” He puts his glass down on the bar and throws a careless arm around my neck, pushing himself up onto his toes so we’re almost mouth to mouth. His lips brush my cheek as he whispers, “Nicely played, alpha. That was a growl people won’t forget any time soon.”
“Yes,” I say, winded. “That was my intention.”
The music changes while he’s in my arms. A fast song to a slow one. A mournful, orchestral version of Chris Isaak’s “Wicked Game,” which, when I think about what Jensen and I are up to, is rather apt.
The little mouse likes the song. He must because he sways slowly from side to side and drapes his other arm around my neck, lacing his fingers behind my neck. My hands find their way to his hips, fingers seeking the gentle protrusions of bone and curling around them.
My grip tightens roughly, making him inhale and step into my orbit.
“Are we dancing, my lord?” he asks, teeth glittering in amusement. “I didn’t take you for someone who danced voluntarily.”
When he says it, my response appears in my mind full-bodied and clear.I’m not sure there’s anything voluntary about it.It makes no sense at all, so thank God, I’m able to stop myself from saying it aloud.
Jensen throws his head back as we move together in a slow, undulating motion. His eyes slide shut, his lips slashed into a big, beautiful smile. The jewels I fixed around his neck dig into the soft skin near his jugular, making tender flesh pleat and pale skin pinken.
“May I?” I say.
He blinks, seemingly unsure of what I’m offering, but nods all the same.
I reach for the necklace, and as I do, he turns his head, tilting it to the side in a way that makes the sinews in his neck tense. It’s a sweet and submissive gesture that makes me dizzy. My face goes warm and tingly, my lips abnormally numb, as I slip a finger under the necklace and drag it slowly from one side of his neck to the other, loosening the chain enough that it falls back into place when I remove my finger, hiding his scent gland once more.
“Shall we get some air?” I suggest.
