Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58036 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 290(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58036 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 290(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
The first sharp jerk didn’t so much as register. It was the following insistent tugs on her arm that, oh so slowly, gave her a reason to part her lashes.
It was still dark, yet a single lamp had been lit, outlining the form of a radiant woman dressed in maroon silks. Pin-straight black locks perfect, almost as smooth as the glass of the Dome.
“You must rise, Commodorina!”
Accent thick, fingernails sharp, a slender figure literally pulled her almost to the floor.
“What?” What on earth could anyone want when there had been dreams of sandy beaches, jungles outside the Dome? There had been fresh, unrecycled air….
“I was ordered to fetch you. Wash, dress, quickly. Chancellor Shepherd waits for no one.” Narrowing her eyes, Lucia clicked her tongue. “You have to answer for what you did.”
Her stomach dropped, the sense of failure in duty hardwired into every part of her being. She did need to answer, but not to the men. She needed to answer to Annette.
Defeated, Brenya couldn’t even find the energy to snarl at the unexpected and undesired presence. Blinking up at the woman with the perfect sheet of black hair, her aristocratic features and straight nose, her sun-bronzed skin, Brenya found it hard to see her past prejudice. “Lucia.”
The Omega was pregnant with Ancil’s preferred child. His mate.
“Hate me later, Commmodorina. Bathe now, and dress for royalty. The men wait to judge you, and I will be held accountable if they are not impressed.” Lacking all mercy, Lucia yanked her arm again. “Come, come, the bath is already full, and you stink.”
Even bleary and aching head to toe, from Brenya’s position, she had all the leverage, applying the proper force to take back control of her arm.
The very thing she had been unable to do when Jules Havel was the one with his paws on her. It was either set Brenya free, or Lucia was going to end up on the disgusting bed beside her.
The Omega set her free, bracing before she too might end up on that horrendous bed.
Once her footing had been gained, Lucia snarled, raising her head only to bite back whatever she had planned to say.
In their little struggle, the sheet had fallen away, an unobstructed view of Brenya’s nude upper body exposed.
Openly staring, Lucia took in all that was on display: the shape of Brenya’s breasts, the bruises, the bites, each scrape. Eyes rolling upward, she sighed. “You’re one of those Omegas. Gods, send me strength.” As if to dig some barb that Brenya didn’t quite grasp deeper, the woman added, “And your nesting skills are atrocious. You are practically a queen, yet you sleep like a peasant. No wonder Ancil sent me to prepare you. You shame us all!”
Just the sound of Ancil’s name set Brenya’s teeth on edge. “I have no interest in being prepared. I can be judged as I am.”
There was no shame in what she had done, only regret that she had failed Annette and her son. That she had been caught and might never have another opportunity to do what was right.
There was regret in having heard a man cry out for his woman when he was tempted by something as inconvenient as her traitorous pheromones. There was regret in how Brenya had gone to Jules Havel first to make it right. Regret in her failure to understand normal feelings—in assuming the Ambassador cared for Rebecca.
Why else would he have whispered her name?
It had not been Brenya’s imagination—the moment, like every moment she had ever lived—was catalogued and memorized. Even now, she could replay the look on his face and the pain in his voice.
Yet he had chosen to stay locked in a cell?
And she now chose to lay in the soggy bed of her own making.
Ignoring the Alpha who yanked at her mind with such force she was little more than a puppet. Rejecting the treacherous Beta’s void and the lies within it.
Let them have their icy cold indifference and burning hot anger.
Brenya was done with them both.
Rubbing her sore shoulder, she closed her eyes and allowed herself a deep breath. Then another, too tired to care.
Fingers repeatedly snapped in her face, Lucia saying, “We are all aware that you are unpolished, but I didn’t assume you were also dimwitted. Men of this level do not wait on one foolish Omega.”
No, they didn’t. “I’m ready.”
Lucia’s beauty was not marred by her irritated expression. “You are naked.”
Did it matter anymore? She had just crept through the palace bare from the waist down. Projections of her writhing in a sexual encounter were playing on repeat for a prisoner in a shoddy cell. Modesty had yet to apply in her new existence.
“I’m always naked.”
A trill of aggressive foreign language followed, Lucia moving to the dressing room to pick through the uncomfortable clothing that hung from every last rail—so many dresses. Brenya had not even worn a portion of them. She had not so much as entered that room. Jacques picked all of it.