Page 33 of Savage Surrender

The three Haversham fathers have moved closer to Bianca, even though they each have a woman on their arm. All three stare at my mate with an appetite that has shed every polite disguise. I kick Tristan’s foot beneath the table. He follows my gaze, and his eyes turn arctic.

The brilliant doctor has presented his daughters as something rare and priceless to a room full of hungry wolves.

And Bianca is the first and most versatile in his miracle line of heirs. Every alpha in the ballroom has lifted their head like a hound hearing a whistle.

The target he painted is larger than he can imagine.

Or precisely as large as he intended.

With him, I cannot decide which possibility is worse.

A guard carries a bow onto the stage, and the audience titters.

At the far end of the ballroom, a target rolls into place in front of dark glass. Montgomery is planning to hand my mate a weapon in a room full of men she wouldn’t hesitate to kill.

She takes the bow from him and runs her fingertips over it as if reintroducing herself to an old friend. Baby-blue silk brushes her ankles above narrow heels that have no business looking dangerous. The diamonds at her throat catch the ballroom lights, but the moment her hand closes around the grip, every polished detail becomes camouflage.

The rage falls away and I’m simply in awe of her.

A photographer crouches near the stage with a professional camera braced against his face. The lens follows Bianca from the bow in her hand to the set of her shoulders. The shutter chatters. Montgomery intends to turn her into something that can be printed, circulated, and admired long after tonight.

Then I notice the phones.

Two men near the windows have theirs raised. Another at the next table zooms in as Bianca rolls her shoulders loose. I unbutton my collar as heat from the anger that’s building makes it hard to concentrate. No one should have pictures of her.

Bianca tests the string with two fingers and nocks an arrow. Her weight shifts, and the pointed toe of one heel turns toward Montgomery. Her hips begin to follow.

So does the bow.

Every muscle in my body locks.

Montgomery clears his throat softly enough to sound polite. Bianca looks at him, and the bow remains angled between them for what feels like an eternity while the photographer’s shutter goes silent. Then her heel turns back toward the target.

She studies the distance, raises the bow once, then lowers it again. She turns the nock by a fraction, shifts her rear foot inside the narrow heel, and rolls her drawing shoulder loose. Her gaze travels the impossible line over the crowd to the target. The bow rises again.

I recognize the stillness that comes over her. It was there in the footage just before the buck went down. Her shoulders settle. The string reaches the corner of her mouth and stops.

The arrow flies across the ballroom, and the people beneath its path duck out of the way, but Montgomery never flinches.

It hits the target dead center, and the room detonates in applause. Men are on their feet.

She sets the bow down on a stool. An assistant hands a glass of champagne to Bianca, then to Dr. Montgomery.

He holds his glass out to her. “A toast to you, my dear. You are most impressive.”

Montgomery drinks first. For a moment, I expect Bianca to toss the drink in his face. Instead she places the glass to her lips, tilts her head back, and drinks the entire thing.

9

BIANCA

The champagne tastes funny.

Sweet bubbles burst over my tongue, followed by a bitter chemical film that clings to the back of my throat. I swallow again.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

A buzz wouldn’t have been the worst thing tonight. I wasn’t planning to drink at all, but I’ve been on the verge of a panic attack since I put my hand in his and climbed onto this stage. It would’ve been nice for every light and stranger and ugly truth to be blurred.