Page 81 of Depraved
Jonah brings me into the front foyer with its fancy chandelier, and for a second, I think he’s tuned in to exactly what I need. I start to smile as I glance at the front door. But he doesn’t lead me there. Nope. He pulls me towards Black’s office.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I don’t want to go in there, but at the same time, I want a goddamned answer.
I steel myself as we walk in, my posture growing stiff as the scent of caramel and woodsmoke wafts over me, making my knees soft.
Jonah squeezes my hand and says, “Morning, Alpha. If you’ve got a lead on the fuckers who hurt Warcraft, I’ll take it so we can track them down,” Jonah demands of our alpha. He stands tall and straight.
Black looks up from his paperwork, brow rising, expression intrigued. “Glad you’re better and eager. But I already gave that job away. Pluto’s gone hunting. But—” he grabs a massive pile of paperwork and pushes it towards my beta elite, “you can work on the pack house. There are a shit ton of permits that need approval, and we need it built so we can have your official induction ceremony into the elites—”
“Sir, will the other alphas … accept that?”
“They’ll accept whatever I fucking tell them to accept.” Black’s retort is instant and fierce. “Plus, Pluto has a big mouth. Word’s already gotten around that you fought Thomas Stone and held him off. That the whole ‘beta elite’ thing isn’t just a myth.”
Jonah’s face lights up, and I can see Black’s working hard not to smile.
I want to feel good that things are patched up between the two of them. I want to be excited for Jonah because he’s not only found his place, he’s a fucking shifter legend in the making.
But apparently, I’m petty and selfish and pathetic because I’m not happy at all. I can’t get outside my own head and be thrilled for Jonah.
Black won’t look at me. His eyes always fall on me when I walk into a room. Without fail, he checks me out, eyes roaming over me from head to toe. I resented it at first. But right now, I feel bereft.
What’s happening?
Did my question break something between us?
I shove away the sad emotions because Black is probably just being Black—a self-absorbed jerk. I’m going to force him to look at me and face whatever’s going on.
I move forward next to Jonah and reach for some of the papers in his stack, intending to help him but also just trying to force Black to look at me.
It works. Kind of. Black’s face lifts to mine, but his expression is tense. “No. Elena, you have a wedding to plan. Georgia will be here any minute.”
I freeze, and anger erodes away all the happiness left in my system. What the fuck? What is that supposed to mean? I study his expression, but he gives nothing away. Does he want me wedding planning because he wants to be partners? Or is he trying to slip back into his ‘my way or the highway, I control every step you take,’ alphahole ways?
An alpha command rings in my ears as Black remorselessly orders, “Little wolf, go to the drawing-room and spend the next five hours deciding every aspect of your wedding enthusiastically. Right now.”
I guess that answers my question. My face falls, and I turn on my heels. I refuse to meet Jonah’s eyes because it’s stupid that tears are gathering in my own.
I shouldn’t have hoped for anything more from Black. I should have known the old saying, ‘can’t teach an old dog new tricks’ applies to shifters too.
22
ELENA
“Black wantsto see you in the basement,” Matthew appears in front of me just as I’m sliding on a pair of black heels for a stupid-ass rehearsal dinner that I don’t even want to go to. But I’ve been commanded to do so, because the leader of the Lobos has moved our wedding up. To fucking tomorrow.
“Oh, really? Why doesn’t he just alpha-command me there?” I spit out. Black’s been a real dick for the past four days, just as bad as when I first met him. He took one look at the mark Jonah gave me and I thought he was going to blow his top. He looked Mount Vesuvius-level angry. And clearly, he was. He’s been punishing me ever since.
I curse as the shoe bunches up the pantyhose that Georgia insists must be worn even though nobody under the age of thirty ever wears goddamned hose. I pull my foot out of the left shoe and violently adjust the seam of the hose, not caring if I rip it.
Motherfucking dick. I try to breathe carefully because I spent the past hour sobbing on the bathroom floor before I piled on more makeup than I’ve probably ever worn to hide it.
Marriage.
He hasn’t backed down on it. He’s still forcing this stupid-ass bullshit ceremony forward even though he can’t stand to look at me. Won’t talk to me. But every six-to-eight hours, his goddamned voice will pop up inside my head like it’s a walkie-talkie, and he’ll issue some command.Taste wedding cakes. Go for a run.I try to yell back at him,Want to tell me when to breathe too? How to walk?—but he just disconnects our mind-link the second he’s issued an order.
