Page 9 of Alpha's Claim

The door handle scrapes, and I saunter off, turning casually into a small hallway before Thom and his conspirator exit the office. I catch the cigar fumes and scent of rare whiskey.

I listen, hoping Thom heads the opposite way. Instead, the footsteps get closer. The hall behind me leads to a small flight of stairs, and I trot down them to hide. Thom and his friend pass the door, still chatting about golf. They head off without noticing me.

I hover on the stairs, listening to their receding footfalls, when I get a whiff of something floral. Paloma’s gardenia scent wafts up the stairs, and I can’t help following it to the subterranean floor where it leads. The scent is thick and sweet but with that same bitter tang that alarmed me this morning and last night. The further I descend, the more thebitterness overtakes the sweetness until a metallic flavor coats my tongue.

The stairs lead to another hallway. There’s a hum behind the walls and the air is cooler. I’m probably near a server room or something.

Paloma’s scent leads me to an open door. The room beyond is filled with massive screens. There’s a small desk and chair where her scent is concentrated.

Paloma spends a lot of time here, and I think I know what she’s doing. I bet if I flip the wall switch, the screens will light up with familiar numbers from the stock exchanges around the world. Thom said she works for his investment firm. I bet she uses this room to do her trading.

That’s how she increases Thom’s wealth. Thom and whoever he auctions her off to.

But why? He must have hundreds of traders available. What need would he have to use or sell his foster daughter? What’s so special about what she does? Something illegal, perhaps?

Whatever it is, I feel sick.

I’m certain Paloma is a captive, held against her will by the billionaire who made himself her parent.

That explains why the door locks from the outside. I can smell the places her guards stand.

Has she tried to escape? Fought back? That could be how she got the bruises.

My bear is ready to rampage and rip this entire room apart. It’s all I can do not to shift right there.

Instead, I make myself exit and shut the door. I have nothing to gain by losing control. I need to learn more, so I can decide if and how I can help Paloma.

Paloma

Ellie finishes curling my hair and stands back to survey her work. “Beautiful, as always.”

Ellie is my–what do I call her? If we are staying with the fairytale nomenclature, she’d be my chambermaid or servant. I guess she’s a combination jailer/personal assistant. She brings me food on a tray when Thom or his henchman Chip lock me in my chambers. She orders my clothing, trims my hair, and makes sure I have a fresh toothbrush. Last night she did my make up and hair, and she’s going all out for tonight’s masquerade ball. Thom invited seventy-five additional guests in for tonight’s fête–another chance to show off, I guess.

I’m wearing a white strapless chiffon and silk jumper. I suspect it’s supposed to evoke both “sweet innocence” and “bad-ass trader” at the same time.

The corset-like bustier top is heart-shaped to frame my breasts, and it connects in front to the matching wide-legged pants. A sheer fabric covers the shell and gives it an ethereal quality. A filmy wrap hangs over my arms to cover the bruises. Ellie smears a ginger-scented lotion over all of my exposed skin that leaves a shimmer.

I look at my reflection in the mirror, but I hardly recognize the young woman looking back at me. I’ve been locked in a tower for ten years now. Most of the time, I still feel like the grieving fourteen-year-old who first came here. The girl who’d rather curl up in her room and hide than interact with the world.

Carajo,I made it so easy for him.

“It’s going to be all right,” Ellie murmurs although it most certainly will not be.

I try to swallow and nod. “Sure.”

Whatever awaits me tomorrow, I findit impossible to believe it will be any better than what I have here. I won’t just be changing one jailer for another. I’ll bebred.

At least Thom has never had an interest in me sexually. I work for him–he keeps Wren safe and out of it. That’s our agreement.

I glance at the picture of Wren stuck in the border of the mirror. I have photos of her everywhere to remind me why I must persevere. She’s safe, for now. She’s at a Catholic boarding school in Connecticut. One that doesn’t allow cell phones or internet unless strictly supervised. It’s the modern-day version of a medieval convent. I’m allowed a video call with her on Sundays unless my trades haven’t been as profitable as Thom wants, in which case my sister is told I’m working late, and I’m locked in my room for the weekend.

The market took a dump Friday, but I managed to meet my quotas. I should be allowed a call with her tomorrow unless my new husband takes me before then.

Until this morning, he was a faceless replica of Thom.

Now, though, I find myself picturing the Viking from the beach.

A man who could probably snap my neck with one squeeze of those giant ham-hands. What if Thom sells me to him? What if he wanted…morethan my stock trades?

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