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Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.
“Marie,” he barks.
The beta I forgot existed darts to obey. She dips a bow that would be a curtsy if not for her pantsuit, and levels her gaze low enough to submit to an emperor. “Master.”
“This isn’t the dress I chose.” My father’s voice is flat—almost no intonation—but it’s backed with so much dominance, even I’m tempted to kneel.
Lacking rule-breaking gamma genes, Marie can only tremble. “It’s my mistake. I thought the lace was more tantalizing than bare skin.”
I’ve done this lady zero favors, but even though her knees quake, she doesn’t rat me out.
Nikolaj reaches under his jacket.
“Daddy!” I jump to my feet. I’m not watching Marie get executed over a stupid gown.
Nikolaj turns slowly, tilting his head just like Serafina.
Only, Nikolaj doesn’t have to plan how to rip me apart—a life-long butcher knows exactly where to cut.
I’m waiting for the frown or flinch or furrowed brow when he sees through my flaws.
But if he pulls his gun and demands his real daughter back, I’ll be the one forcing him to kneel.
Besides. I am his daughter.
Nikolaj doesn’t frown. His wrinkles freeze in a solid, icy mask that makes it clear I’m being weighed and measured.
Ignoring the skeletal fingertips fretting down my spine, I flash him the good-girl smile I’ve been feeding authority figures for freaking years.
The smile I practiced in the mirror for the parents at the orphanage, my foster monsters, and the trainers at the OCC. The smile I still shoot Doctor Brandon every day I convince myself not to end his breathing.
A bright-eyed, empty smile, so cotton-soft it could blunt a cannon ball.
Not a threat.
Not even a challenge.
A smile that ticks all the vapid boxes while I bide my time to strike.
I know I pass the test when Nikolaj focuses on my neckline instead of pulling his gun. “How prude.”
I bite my cheek through the tinkling clatter of another shattered fantasy—the one where I had a father who ever wanted me.
It doesn’t sting like it should.
Biological family is so overrated.
Ignoring the army of leering guards, I beam and twirl my skirt like a music box ballerina. “I wanted to look elegant for my future pack. Do you like it?”
Nikolaj buttons his coat. Kicking Marie out of his way, he crosses the carpet. “They’ll have you out of it soon enough.”
My pheromones froth.
I ache to kill the act.
Screw Bridget’s case and the whole SAS for stranding me in this mess.
But while my heart screams do it, my brain screams do the math.
