Page 184 of Juliet & Her Romeos

Scented candles are burning on the coffee tables. My nose wrinkles at the spicy scent of cinnamon and cloves.

The open fire blazes in the fireplace, which is decorated with wreathes festooned with scarlet robins and pine cones, but there’s no warmth in the room.

It’s frozen by the stone cold bitch, Olivia Romeo.

Olivia lounges elegantly on the burgundy couch to the side of the fir tree, which drips with glass baubles like bubbles, gilded ribbons, strands of gold beads, and hundreds of Ambrose’s rose shaped paper decorations that look like the notes Ambrose once gave me.

I bristle, hating that she’s so close to something that represents his love for me.

She’s violating it:Ambrose’s first declaration.

When Olivia casually reaches out, toying with a paper decoration, tearing at its edges, my heart stutters to a stop.

She knows.

Fuck, she’s smart.

Cruel.

And dangerous.

Olivia is dressed in a flowing golden, silk dress. It flutters like leaves around her all the way to her ankles.

She should be beautiful.

She is, startlingly.

But her amber eyes, which are the same shade as Ambrose’s, are so hard that it makes her look as ugly to me on the outside, as I know she is on the inside.

Her straight, golden hair is pinned back with rose clips.

Next to Olivia, entwined in a way that makes me uneasy, is Laurent.

I smile at him, before I can stop myself. I’ve missed my friend.

Laurent’s cool, gray eyes study me, however, as if I’m a stranger.

I falter, before I realize that he’s better than his brother at playing the game around Olivia.

He’s had to be.

I blank my expression.

Laurent’s waist long blond hair, which is feathered around his face, is also made pretty with rose clips like he’s about to do a model shoot.

But then, he’s usually dressed up like this, in a gray suit with glimmering waistcoat that’s embroidered with roses, which is too restrictive and buttoned up to his neck, as if he’s a designer handbag for his mom to carry.

Laurent’s face is still as sharp as a blade.

It’s always been Olivia’s mistake to underestimate him.

When Swan directs Benedict and me further into the room without letting go of our hands, I gasp.

Now, I’ve skirted the armchairs, I can see that the two Alphas are kneeling in front of the couch, almost close enough to touch Olivia’s feet.

My cheeks redden with rage.

No Alpha should be forced to kneel.

---