Page 11 of Alpha's Claim

I should run. I should dive out the window and break my neck rather than give him the satisfaction of breeding me.

Except for Wren. I can’t go off half-cocked until I have a plan to get her to safety. I can’t risk him pulling her out of school to do the same horrifying things to her.

The silk of the mask drapes over my eyes, and he ties it in the back. My hairs stand on end at having the devil so close to me.

Chapter Three

Darius

Thom’s masquerade ball isn’t just for the house guests. He invited an extended list of friends and acquaintances to join the party tonight. Starting at dusk, a never-ending line of Lamborghinis, Bugattis, and Rolls Royces convenes on the mansion. I pick up the flimsy black mask a staff member delivered a few minutes ago. It’ll go well with my black on black tux. I look like James Bond, but I can’t shake my apprehension.

Tonight, I intend to find out what’s going on with Paloma. There’s something wrong here. I don’t have proof, but I know it in my gut.

My bear wants to rampage. After years of keeping the upper hand, I’m tested now by his uprising. When I glance in the mirror, my eyes are golden. I have to fight to get my bear under control, so my eyes return to their human color. Only threatening to stay in my room gets him to recede. He wants to see Paloma. If it were up to him, I wouldn’t let her out of my sight.

But I’m not an uncivilized Neanderthal. When I wasyoung, I was a wild child, almost feral. I’ve spent years building up my control, and I’m not about to lose my head.

I shaved my face clean earlier, but when I exit my bedroom, I have a beard. My bear’s way of rebelling. I’ll allow it, as long as he knows his place.

I saunter into the ballroom, accepting a glass of champagne. Thom must have hired a whole agency of models to attend because there are tall and attractive women everywhere I look. The models tower over the frat boys, who all look like Christmas has come early. The rest of the crowd is the bored, rich set who live in the Hamptons. I float through them, nodding at people I know through business. I keep it moving, waiting to catch the gardenia scent.

Paloma enters the room surrounded by a flock of bodyguards. They keep multiplying. Soon she’ll have better security than a president.

I move closer to get a better glimpse of her. She’s in white again, her lush breasts pushed up and framed in a strapless top. The color makes her glow like a goddess. Even with the mask hiding those big expressive eyes, it’s clear she’s the loveliest woman in the room.

There’s a queue of country club types forming a line beside her. The band strikes up, and I don’t need my shifter hearing to know that she’s being induced to dance. A man twice her age leads her out to the dance floor. She dances with him, and halfway through the song, the next man cuts in and claims her. Then the next. There’s no surprise on her face when each new partner arrives. There’s no pretense of enjoyment, either. She doesn’t make much conversation with any of them. It’s almost as if it’s prearranged—who she will dance with and when. As if this is Paloma’s coming out party, and she’s now available on the marriage market.

Was that the merger Thompson was referring to?

I pass a white-haired man scolding his son. “Focus. We need to win the auction.”

The son protests and gets rapped by his father’s cane.

“–Tonight, midnight. After that, you can do as you like.” The father prods the son forward, and he reluctantly heads across the room towards Paloma.

“–Sample the merchandise,” another man in the apparent queue mutters.

My bear nearly forces his way out. I want to smash my champagne glass on the ground, tear off my suit, and destroy anyone who dares touch her.

Instead, I get a giant glass of merlot and stroll to the center of the floor, where a thirty-year-old guy with a seventy thousand dollar watch and a receding hairline is attempting to steer Paloma through the other dancers. Without bothering to pretend to trip, I toss my drink on him. The dark liquid spatters all over his front and soaks into the expensive Italian cotton.

“Oops,” I say.

The man curses. Paloma steps back. Her white jumper escaped any stains.

Her dance partner starts to bluster, and I catch his gaze, holding it until he sees the ferocity of my bear and drops his eyes. “You’d better go change.” I arch my brow. “I’ll take over from here.” I step in front of him and take Paloma’s hand, then tug her into my arms.

Her sweet scent surrounds me, and for a moment, I’m dizzy. The bitter tang has receded, and I can smell only her delectable skin, along with a light scent of ginger. I want to lick up her neck and taste her properly.

“May I have this dance?” I give her my most dazzling smile and maneuver us into the waltz my mother Winnie taught us when we were gangly teens.

“Oh, now he asks.”

I can’t tell if she’s flirting or annoyed.

I’m not the grouchy and stand-offish bear type like my brother, Teddy. I learned to schmooze and charm humans to win on this cut-throat playing field. But, for the first time, I’m unsure of myself. For the first time, I actually care whether my charm lands or not.

Paloma matches me step for step, leaning on me and responding to the slightest pressure. We twist and turn together, dancing like we were born to do it.

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