Whispering to herself, she said, “This shouldn’t be here.”
She had not even come this way. Furthermore, sorting through the memories of the night, Brenya could recall no action that would have triggered a voltage surge. She had purposefully avoided all electrical conduits so as not to trigger any alarms.
Behind her, Lucia demanded of the silent guards, “Why is she staring at the wall like that?”
Having been intimate with several of the palace’s maintenance shafts, Brenya was certain that the well-maintained circuitry did not experience random surges of this nature. Even the shafts themselves were spotless—worthy of Palo Corps’s mark of excellence.
An impatient hand came to Brenya’s arm, Lucia barking, “What part of ‘men of such status do not wait’ did you not understand, Commodorina?”
Still studying the pattern of the char marks on the wallpaper about the light fixture before her, Brenya said, “Commodorina is not a word in our language. I understand that you are attempting to give me a designation, but I do not have one anymore.”
“You need a title. What else would I call you? Brenya? That is too familiar for the mate of a king. Next, you’d expect me to allow servants to call me Lucia.”
Distracted, calculating the why of what was before her, Brenya muttered to the distraction, “He’s not a king.”
Speaking of the not king…
“Brenya!” The name was shouted with a bite, sailing down the halls as if Jacques had cracked a whip toward the entire party for insolence.
Raging as he rushed, physically puffed up and eyes threatening murder, the Commodore roared, “You were ordered to escort my mate immediately to me, under the highest level of security. And I find you loitering in the halls!”
Standing at attention, the guard standing point said, “Sir, our orders expressly state that we may not touch or speak to Brenya Perin unless her life is in imminent peril.”
“It is!” Viciously, Jacques Bernard shoved the armed Alpha aside. As the guard careened off the wall, the Commodore made a rough grab at Brenya’s arm.
She had witnessed Jacques in various terrifying states, but she had never seen him like this.
The physical effect was inescapable. Eyes wide, she backed away.
Or tried to. He had her so tightly there was nothing to do but swallow her racing heart and try to keep up as he outpaced the party.
When her feet caught on her skirts, he dragged her, practically ripping her arm from the socket.
Behind them, the guards and a suddenly silent Lucia trailed.
Once the racing party reached a door flanked by further security, Jacques pulled Brenya around so he might take account of the panting, startled woman in his grip.
It was only then it seemed to occur to him that he was hurting her and that she could hardly breathe.
His grip on her arm altered from cruel to gently kneading. As if he might chase away what smarted. As if he wanted to offer her comfort.
Drinking down her wide-eyed expression, he quickly smoothed her hair back into place with an expertise that outweighed that of Lucia.
Accent heavy, the Omega interjected, “Great Commodore, she refused cosmetics.”
Snarling at the interruption, the Commodore turned his attention from Brenya to the supplicating Omega. He measured the woman with her eyes demurely turned to the floor, her head at a subtle bow. “You have done well enough, I suppose, Lucia.” Addressing the guard at Lucia’s side, Jacques barked an order. “Escort this woman to the security chief’s residence. Lock her in.”
If there was any disappointment having her short-lived freedom stripped away, Lucia did not betray it. She curtseyed, and she obeyed.
In a much softer tone, Jacques blended a purr into his words. “Brenya, I need you to catch your breath for me. When you walk into this room, you will walk in as a queen. Remember that you represent every life under this Dome. That you have made an oath to them. I caution you to choose your words well, and think of how much you love…” It seemed as if he was going to say “me,” but the Alpha hesitated and offered, “your people,” instead.
The violence, the rushing, the lack of sleep, Brenya’s failure to free Jules Havel or see Annette and her baby safe, the disappointment and the regret… the entire night was impacting her ability to think straight.
Worse was the anxiety tolling through the pair-bond. His anxiety. It pinged about her throat, weaving itself into her confusion… because he didn’t seem angry with her.
The way he was petting and fretting, how he obsessively touched her face.
He seemed afraid for her.
And he was still fidgeting with her clothing and organizing her hair just so, tucking loose strands behind her unpierced ears—forcing her necklace to lay flat where prongs had snagged the lace across her chest.
Cupping her cheeks, Jacques urged her to meet his gaze. “You look like a queen. Beautiful. Everything any man might desire in a mate.”