Chapter 9

My eyes flicker evasively; I can't help it. What am I supposed to say to that? Although I decided not to use Marcus to get revenge on Charles, I still have no intentions of falling in love with him. I can't afford that kind of entanglement.

For one thing, there are dozens of very rich, very pretty young women here who are currently staring at me with daggers in their eyes as I dance with Marcus. They're all from other prominent werewolf families, politician families, business families – you get the idea.

Their families have money. They were raised to live in this kind of world, the world of Plaza weddings and real crystal chandeliers and sleekly expensive car collections in the second garage.

The world of dinner menus with no prices listed, where the food was made according to the chef's discretion and the wine only comes by the bottle.

The world of yachts and jets, second and third vacation homes. The world of Swiss bank accounts and handbag collections designed by people whose names I can't even pronounce.

The world where saying you flew "first class" would be met with embarrassment and judgmental snickering, because everyone else in the room has a private jet.

That's one hell of a world, and it's not my world. Even if my family still accepted me, loved me, defended me, stood by me, it wouldn't be my world. It's not my family's world, either, no matter how desperately they want it to be.

That world is off-limits to me, and that's one half of my problem.

The other half of my problem is that Charles and Daisy are married now. Charles is a part of Marcus's family, officially and legally. He's going to be there for every Christmas going forward, every Thanksgiving dinner, every fancy New Year's Eve party.

He's a business associate, too; he works directly with the family finances. He's entwined with the Alpha family in pretty much every way possible, which means that I'm forever going to be on the outside.

I really don't want to be near the Alpha family unless it has something to do with getting justice for myself, because I don't want to create a life for myself where I'm sitting there, day after day, staring at the man who broke my heart and ruined my career and having to pretend that it's all just fine.

It's not fine. It'll never be fine.

"Nicole?" Marcus asks, almost in concern. "I lost you for a minute, there. Did I say something wrong?"

"No, of course not," I say with a shake of my head. "And you don't just look gentlemanly, Marcus, you are gentlemanly."

Marcus smiles, twirling me gently again before drawing me back in to rest a hand along the small of my back. The green velvet is so smooth against my skin, and I can feel the heat from Marcus's hand through my dress. I lean into him, just a little, and he seems to grip me a little tighter.

"You know, I've always been raised to be polite – gentlemanly, as you call it – above all else," Marcus says thoughtfully. "It can become a part of who you are, after a while. You don't really think about it anymore."

"That makes sense," I say, not sure where he's going with this. He must be able to read the confusion in my voice, because he slows in our dancing and looks more serious than he did a few moments before.

"It does," he says. "But it also makes it hard for people to know when you're being sincere with them. It's true that I'm just courteous with many people. I have to be, after all. But with other people–" he pauses here, and looks deep into my eyes.

"With other people, it comes from a place of genuine care and kindness," he says. "Problem is, they don't always know that. They're so used to you being courteous, they don't realize when you're actually knocking on their door, asking to be let in."

I suddenly feel shy, glancing away from the intensity of Marcus's blue eyes and across the dance floor instead.

"Don't you want to know which category you belong to?" Marcus asks softly. His eyes are so blue. I feel like I could dive into them, swim in their depths and never need to resurface for air.

I shake my head and smile, shrugging off my melancholy and aiming for an air of lightness, breeziness. I need to shut this down, right now. Nothing good can come of it, not for either of us.

"No," I say. "I'll let it remain a mystery for a while longer, if that's all right with you. Besides, I have no intention of falling in love any time soon." Here, I give a genuine sigh of regret. Before Marcus can respond, I decide to change the subject.

"How are you feeling about Daisy's wedding?" I ask. "It was a gorgeous affair. I got to see my fairytale wedding, after all. But I've heard some people say that this might damage your chances of becoming the Alpha's heir?"

I hoped this wasn't too awkward of a question to bring up to someone, some sort of werewolf faux paux, but Marcus just smiles easily.

"It's been a lovely wedding, and I'm genuinely very happy for Daisy," he says. "It's true that being a mated wolf, especially with heirs of your own, increases your chances of becoming the next Alpha.

"But when your strength is secure, when you love your family, there's no reason to resent new family members. We all want what's best for our pack, at the end of the day."

I feel a pang in my heart. I genuinely like Marcus – he's a good man, a kind leader, a strong king who genuinely wants what's best for his family and his community. I wish that this romantic dance could be the start of something new for me.

It can't, but I can wish for it. Just like I can wish that my own family loved me the way Marcus is loved by his. Again, though, I'm glad I'm not taking advantage of this man for my own ends. He deserves better than that.

The dance ends, and I step away, still holding Marcus's hand.

"I think you should probably make a circuit of the room," I say, regret tinging my voice. "There are a lot of very noble-looking ladies who have been eyeing me with distaste for keeping you all to myself for so long. I don't want to make any new enemies."

Marcus chuckles at my joke. He seems about to protest, but I excuse myself anyway, sweeping off the dance floor as gracefully as I can.

I need a break for other reasons, anyway. I need to find Charles. He owes me an apology, at the very least.

I find him propped up at the corner of the bar, drinking a whisky like he wishes he could drown in it. He startles when he sees me approach, turns pale and a little green around the edges.

"Hey, Charles," I say, signaling the bartender for my own drink. The bartender brings me a fresh whisky, identical to Charles's. "Can we talk?"