The Alpha of Bleake Isle

Chapter ThreeMAIRWEN

Iturned my head to the side, dipping my nose down to my shoulder, trying to catch another whiff of that harsh, oaky scent of the alpha. I'd bathed as soon as I got home, scrubbed myself clean and changed my dress, but I could still feel the pressure of his arm around my waist, and it seemed impossible that some evidence shouldn't still remain.

I reached for my glass, fingers pausing around the stem. Across from me at the table, Mr. Evans watched with me a faint smirk. He'd provided the wine for the evening, and it had an unpleasant aftertaste, like licorice, which was starting to turn my stomach. Or the thought of what was to come was responsible. Probably both.

I didn't see why Mr. Evans should bother to keep with the recent tradition of bedding his intended the night before the selection. He could hardly be afraid of losing me to the alpha.

Even with Adelaide Brys's recent foray into treason.

I pressed my lips firmly to the wine glass as I sipped, and some of the gassy-flavored liquid slipped in. I had a secret, and it was bursting behind my tongue, begging to be told. But what if Mr. Evans was aware of the plot, an ally to Hugh Gamesby? What if my father was?

I'd heard my father refer to our former alpha, Lord Cadogan's father, as ungentlemanly. I also knew he lacked confidence in the son, but I'd never heard him speak so ill as to suggest he might want our alpha dead.

"The wine was aged in my cellars," Mr. Evans—surely I couldn't keep calling him Mister—said, watching me take another false sip. "It is my table's signature. I rarely prefer anything else."

His smile was beatific. He'd just offered me a tidbit of knowledge of his tastes, one I would find useful—or be expected to remember—when my father handed my life over to him tomorrow afternoon.

Tomorrow. A month ago—the moment before Lord Cadogan stormed into our company—the inevitable still managed to feel quite distant, a far-off point on the horizon I might never manage to reach. Now the day was tomorrow, a massive wall in front of me I could find no way around or over.

My family's dining room was warm, well-heated by two small fireplaces on either end, but I felt as though I were falling backwards into a cool grave. My days were numbered now. Mr. Evans's omegas rarely lasted more than one ten-year term. If I'd been born a few months earlier, had been chosen by Mr. Evans in the last rut selection ceremony, I would already be dead by now.

As a woman walking into her grave, I decided I ought to be able to have a few last words.

"It reminds me of that candy I used to hate so much as a child," I said brightly, smiling back at Mr. Evans.

"Mairwen!" My mother's cry was sudden and wounded, as if it was her I'd insulted and not our guest.

My father let out an awkward laugh. "Aren't we lucky, then, that our tastes mature as we age?"

I went ahead and made a dubious expression, Mr. Evans glaring at me as he helped himself to his own sip of wine.

"I didn't realize you could be so outspoken, dear one," Mr. Evans said. "I do enjoy an omega who is unafraid to contradict her superiors. The opportunity to provide instruction for their betterment is quite satisfying."

It would be difficult to resist the urge to fight this man, but if he looked forward to it, I was better off denying him one.

"It must be the wine," I murmured. I looked down to my plate and frowned to find all the food already gone.

"Perhaps we'd better see that you get a little fresh air, dear one," Mr. Evans said.

"Oh yes, the gardens are lovely this time of day," my mother hurried to say.

"You mean in the dark?" I asked my mother, a little too loudly.

"They're serene," she bit out.

I huffed and sat back in my seat, glancing at my father and finding the worst kind of condemnation on his face. Worry and pleading, so much more potent than anger. I was twenty-six years old. He could hardly refuse Mr. Evans and let me wait another ten years for the next selection. And there'd been money exchanged for me already, I was sure of it.

If I insulted Gryffyd Evans too deeply, found some ma

If only I'd been just a little bit pretty, just a bit smaller and less inclined to good food and lying in the sun reading. If only my hair took the slightest curl.

I lifted the glass of wine, nose wrinkling at its smell, and stared at Mr. Evans over the rim. I could not walk into that shadowy garden alone with Mr. Evans without some kind of courage. Might as well let it be liquid. I drank the glass down in full, ignoring Mr. Evans's triumphant grin and my swirling stomach.

We rose from the table, and he remained waiting for me to circle the seat, his arm offered. I wanted to refuse the gesture, but the candlelight was spi

Lord Cadogan had carried me through the woods with no effort I could detect, and while I hadn't felt dainty, his hold was comfortable and I'd been less self-conscious in his company than most men's. I was not very self-conscious now with Mr. Gryffyd Evans, but that was largely to do with feeling I ought to focus on him, my body tense in preparation for his strike.

Mr. Evans led the way to the back garden like it was his home, not mine. Without an heir, with me in Mr. Evans's clutches, perhaps it would end up his. No wonder he'd been willing to put money towards it.

"You must be anxious for tomorrow," Mr. Evans said.

I was more anxious for this evening, my knees growing weaker with every step, the wine in my stomach jostling like the waves at the cliff's edge.

"Don't you find it chilly out tonight, sir?" I asked. It was lovely and temperate. "Would you rather retire to the salon? I could play music for you. I've been practicing a song on the pianoforte."

At best, I was an acceptable talent at music, and my mother said my singing voice was morbid and unsettling. Would that be enough to put the man off?

His hand covered mine on his arm, fingers biting into my wrist, latching me to him. His stride was long and quick, dragging me back through the tidy rows of poppies, peonies, and roses my mother tended with such devotion.

"I've had quite enough girlish music and simpering for one courting season. You know the tradition as well as I do, Miss Posy. I intend to have what little joy this union can offer as readily and often as I please."

My skin crawled, uncomfortably warm and clammy, and my steps stumbled as he carted me to the back of the garden. There was an old wooden bench my grandfather had built, tucked under a broad willow. It wasn't entirely out of the sight of the house, but I had no doubt that wherever my parents were tonight, they weren't going to be watching the garden.

"I don't feel well," I murmured, tripping over a root.

Mother's di

I was thrown down to the bench, the seat hard and the landing jolting my belly and all its contents.

"Don't be missish, you're far too old for that," Mr. Evans sneered. "Even with your shortcomings, I can hardly be the first man to take the territory."

My eyes widened at such a ridiculous statement, and Mr. Evans's bulky frame wavered in front of me. A hard grip claimed my knee, hauling my foot up to the bench, as another pushed my shoulder back and to the side, putting me at an odd angle.

No. The angle he needed, I realized, some of that wine and thick di

"Sir, I think I might⁠—"

Mr. Evans's knee landed on the bench between my awkwardly spread legs, and my skirt let out a muffled cry, tearing as he pushed it up and out of his way.

He was wrong. I was twenty-six, with all my shortcomings, and no man had claimed my territory, as he'd called it. The hand on my shoulder grasped my neck, pinching it cruelly, and my heart sank in my chest as Mr. Evans dove down and slammed his mouth to mine. His tongue was slick across my lips and chin, and I offered myself the poor consolation prize of this being absolutely the worst first kiss in history.

"Open your mouth, chit," he snapped.

But my mouth was pressed firmly closed, stomach clenching and throat swallowing compulsively as bitter saliva and sharp bile pooled on my tongue. If I opened my mouth, I would certainly⁠—

Oh. Brilliant! I thought suddenly.

I did as Mr. Evans asked of me, parting my lips as my stomach heaved once more. The wine was even worse coming back up my throat, onto my tongue, and I expelled it eagerly.

"Argh! Blech! Ughhh!"

Mr. Evans's grip on my neck was yanking me away from him now, but it was too late. I'd never been so delighted to be sick in my life, a dark stain spilling between us, over both our chins and elegant di

He released me, stumbling backwards, and I sat up, eagerly throwing up again, making sure it hit his pants and boots as he hurried to escape me. I wanted to crow with victory, hoot with laughter. I also wanted very much to be sick again. I felt and smelled disgusting now, but it was all worth it.

Thankfully, my voice was weak and raspy as I spoke. "Forgive me, sir. I did try to warn you. Something disagreed with me." I gagged, spat out bile to the ground, and shook my head. "I think it was the wine."

Mr. Evans shuddered and gagged softly himself. "Disgusting, absurd creature. How dare you!"

"I am so dreadfully sorry, but sir, I think there might be⁠—"

He howled and jumped aside quickly, and I bent in half to hide my foul grin.

"Never mind. Never mind tonight. No one else would ever take you," he hissed, backing away.

I nodded to agree. And perhaps Mr. Evans would spread the word and no one would ever choose me.

"But you'll pay for this tomorrow," he snarled, turning on his heel.

My grin faltered briefly until I heard him gagging again as he all but ran toward the house, calling for his carriage. This was only a delay. A reprieve from my fate.

But I thought I might've ensured one bright reward for my future, at least.

Mr. Evans would surely never offer me more of that horrible wine. If I was lucky, I'd ruined the taste for him altogether.

I huffed a laugh and then winced. Oh, I stank. I rose gingerly from the bench, and the imprint of Mr. Evans's grip on me was more disturbing than the streak of vomit ru

I would have another bath. This was my last night of freedom, peace.