Page 94 of Bonds of Hate

“And you think I’m a threat?” I ask incredulously.

His lip curls. “Fucking right, you are.”

I study his expression for any hint of subterfuge and find none. Cillian really seems to believe that Logan needs protection from me. “I’m not exactly planning to assassinatethe prince in his sleep. Pretty sure he could stop me, even if I tried.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Cillian grumbles. He rubs his chin with one hand and heavily sighs. For a moment, he looks absolutely exhausted. “You want honesty? Fine. Whether you like it or not, you bring a type of chaos that we just don’t need, especially now. It probably isn’t on purpose. You likely can’t help yourself. But the longer you stay here, the more at risk all of us are. Even for your own sake, you shouldn’t be here.”

Before I can respond, he turns and continues walking toward a row of sleek and identical black SUVs that are neatly parked in a row. The conversation is clearly over, but his words settle uncomfortably in my stomach alongside the dry-swallowed suppressants.

Cillian presses the button of a tiny fob in his hand and practically marches toward the vehicle with flashing lights. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence at all as he opens the driver’s side door and slams it shut behind him.

I slide into the passenger seat as he starts the engine. Unsurprisingly, the leather interior smells new and is absolutely pristine. I’m surprised that just the two of us are taking out one of the royal fleet of vehicles with no guards or other security. Then I notice bulletproof, thick-paned glass and a computer mounted on the dash, probably tracking our location to within a city block.

We pull out of the garage in tense silence. I want to defend myself, to explain that I don’t want to do anything more than what was agreed on with the mating contract. But something tells me Cillian isn’t interested in explanations.

If I were slightly smarter, I would let the subject go completely. Of all of them, Cillian seems to have the best control over his emotions, which means it’s impossible to predict what will make him lose control.

But I just can’t help myself.

“Is it just me that’s a problem, or would you feel this way about any Omega joining the pack?”

His hands clench on the steering wheel. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

“That’s too bad,” he murmurs, a note of finality in his voice. “Unfortunately, even pretty little Omegas can’t always get what they want.”

I don’t understand why that almost sounds like sympathy.

The SUV glides to a stop in front of a gleaming glass building that stretches toward the sky. Cillian exits without a word and tosses the keys to a skinny, teenage beta at the valet stand, leaving me to scramble after him through the golden revolving doors.

My steps falter as I take in the opulent interior of the Omega department store. Vines and flowers, planted along a half-wall in the entryway, spell out the wordsCapital Garden Center. Crystal chandeliers drip from a coffered ceiling several floors overhead, their light dancing across marble floors polished to a mirror shine.

The air is thick with expensive perfumes, an alternative to scent neutralizers for those who can afford them, and thesoft murmur of cultured voices. I haven’t seen this many Omegas in one place since I left the Enclave and I’m not sure how to feel about this unexpected environment.

A heavily pregnant woman waddles past, her mate’s claiming mark proudly displayed above the collar of her silk dress. She isn’t alone — I spot several others in various stages of pregnancy browsing racks of designer clothing. Their rounded bellies are adorned with flowing fabrics that highlight rather than hide their condition.

Near a display of formal wear, an Omega juggles shopping bags while her two small children play peek-a-boo around a rack of dresses. Her tinkling laugh mingles with their squeals of delight. The sound both makes my chest ache with longing and also leaves nauseous feeling curdling in the pit of my stomach.

This is what society expects Omegas to be — claimed, bred, and perfectly content with their lot. These Omegas seem to have embraced it fully, their faces glowing with satisfaction as they shop and eat, while spending an eye-watering amount of money to do it.

But I’ve never felt more out of place. My modest dress borrowed from the harem closet suddenly feels like a flashing sign announcing my unclaimed status. That Cillian is here with me highlights this even more. Most of the Omegas seem to be here on their own. Even the salespeople, impeccably dressed in black uniforms, eye us with barely concealed curiosity.

The quiet whispers from some of the women start before I’m halfway across the floor. I wonder if they recognize me from a royal announcement as Prince Logan’s Omega, now here in harem rags. If the circumstances werereversed, I would probably be sickly fascinated, too. I lift my chin and straighten my spine, refusing to let their judgment affect me. Let them wonder. Let them whisper. I’m not here for their approval.

Cillian is already speaking with a sales associate, who solemnly nods at whatever he is saying. They abruptly head for the back of the store. I hurry to catch up with him before he has the chance to snap at me in public.

The sales associate leads us to a secluded alcove tucked away from the main shopping floor. Three full-length mirrors create a semi-circle around a small platform, with plush cream-colored chairs arranged nearby. The setup reminds me of the wedding dress fittings you see in holovids.

A different associate appears with two flutes of pale golden champagne balanced on a silver tray. She offers them with a practiced flourish before disappearing through a discrete door.

Cillian sinks into one chair, slim legs stretched out in front of him as he takes a sip of champagne. I remain standing, unsure if I should join him or step onto the platform.

“I’ve already informed them of the pack’s preferences for your wardrobe,” Cillian says, gaze fixed on the bubbles rising in his glass. “You can make the final selections from whatever they bring out.”

“Thank you.” I wrap my fingers around the delicate stem of my glass, almost touched by this unexpected consideration. “That’s very nice of you.”

His gaze flicks briefly to mine, expression sardonic. “Not really. I just don’t particularly care what you wear, as long as you don’t embarrass us in front of the court.”

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