“It will be,” Oberon slipped his hands into his front pockets, mirroring her cavalier attitude perfectly, “once you hand over my omega.”
She giggled, the sound mocking and fake. “You’ve only purchased a single heat. I’d hardly call him yours.”
“Is that an offer to buy him off the Wardrobe’s hands?” Oberon was joking.
He had to be.
Fenrir pursed his lips and then crossed the room, not wanting to let things get any more heated. As soon as he was within range, the alpha captured his wrist and tugged him roughly against his side. When Fen tried to straighten and pull away, his grip tightened.
Oberon grinned at Michelle. “Happy Heated Hearts Day.”
Chapter 6:
“You fit right in.” Despite his comment, Oberon didn’t so much as spare Fenrir a glance, too busy scanning the crowd. It was impossible to tell what he was looking for, but whatever it was, his almost bored expression never wavered, indicating he’d yet to locate it.
To his credit, Fenrir kept his composure, adopting the same blasé stance as the infuriating alpha at his side. It wasn’t in his nature to be one-upped, not unless his situation required it of him, and considering he was already locked into a binding contract with Oberon, the stage where Fenrir needed to act to draw attention had passed.
Hell, he’d technically failed in that regard anyway, since this alpha was never one he’d meant to attract in the first place.
“Not your first tediously mediocre event?” Oberon asked, though it was obvious by his tone he’d already gleaned as much. “Well? Thoughts? Does the glittering veneer hold a candle to theparties held by the Wardrobe, or has the White Frost left you unimpressed?”
Evergreen was tastefully decorated on a regular day, but it’d been completely redone to mirror the occasion. Heated Hearts was a big event on Synastry; some might even argue it was bigger than Yuel Tide or New Year’s ever since the Imperial family had changed it from a day about love to a day about fornication.
The White Frost celebrated the same as everyone else, though with the same lavish flare Fenrir had expected from the mafia.
There were bowls filled with party favors at the entrance. Heat inducers, packaged sex toys, and more. Alcohol flowed in abundance, with dozens of waitstaff moving about, hoisting trays filled with glasses containing every color of the rainbow. The Leviathan was oddly known for his love of celebrations, and this party was talked about for weeks leading up to and after the main event. Receiving an invitation was considered an honor in some circles, a threat in others, but always something that carried great importance.
Even though both technically ran criminal organizations, the Wardrobe had only just been able to step out from the shadowy underbelly. Michelle was at odds with the White Frost, but that didn’t change the fact that she was vastly outnumbered, with wealth and power that didn’t come close to what the mafia had in their pockets.
“The Wardrobe doesn’t own anything quite like this,” he stated blandly, testing the waters. He didn’t like this uncertainty, not knowing whether this was mere small talk or if the alpha was trying to get something out of him.
“That’s a rather tame way of saying I can provide better than your mistress ever could,” Oberon said.
“Is that what this is? Are you showing off, King?”
“While neither party has ever spoken of it out loud, you and I both know there’s animosity between the White Frost and the Wardrobe.”
“That’s clear from the fact I’m here, drinking expensive wine that tastes like freshly picked berries, dressed in a three-piece suit, being shown off like some prize. Is that why you bid on me? To give your friends a laugh?”
“Take a closer look around, precious. You’re getting lots of stares, but not a single person is laughing at you.”
Fenrir peered over the railing down at the crowd, glancing away quickly when he noticed that was true. At his side, the alpha laughed at his discomfort. “I’m not used to this. My purpose within the Wardrobe was never to become an escort.”
“I wouldn’t make light of your mistress’s assets, and neither should you,” Oberon said. “She creates a hell of a lot more than simply escorts. We both know half the omegas on that stage tonight were less than thrilled to be there.”
“Like the actual mafia hasn’t done worse?” Fenrir took another sip of wine, careful not to consume too much at once.
“Worried about putting yourself in a vulnerable position?” The alpha set his gaze on Fen finally, a twinkle of mischief in his green eyes. Next to each other, their similar heights became more apparent, though Oberon was still around an inch or so taller. “No one here would dare take advantage of you, even if you were to get drunk.”
“Just you,” Fenrir drawled, unwilling to play into the other man’s hand. “Don’t act like you haven’t already tried it once.”
“You made your stance on the matter clear.”
He snorted. “And I’m supposed to believe you’ll respect that?”
Oberon tilted his head. “Are you not used to people responding positively to your right to consent?”
“I’m product,” he reminded, some of his mood, which had already been on the low side, dropping further.