Betrayed Forced Mate (Rosecreek Special Ops Wolves #4)

“I want to thank everyone for coming out on this fine evening. As you know, we are once again nearing the election portion of the political cycle, and we are so happy to be garnering support. I, for one, would very much like to retain my seat as mayor of this fine city, and I know many of the public servants in attendance tonight are also eager to either win or retain a seat. Please eat, drink, and socialize while learning more about what you can do to support our efforts. Thank you.”

There’s a huge round of applause, and I narrow my eyes at the stage, wondering what it is about his speech that’s bothering me. Is it that he hasn’t really said anything? Or talked about policy?

I look around the room, sipping the water in my glass. I asked the bartender to truss up a glass for me so I would look like I was having a drink. It’s helping me to blend in, and any assailant might think I’m incapacitated, which could give me an edge.

“Good evening,” someone says, and I turn, putting my hand to my mouth, when I realize it’s the mayor himself speaking to me. Up close, his deep wrinkles and evident Botox are even more glaring.

“Oh,” I say, taking a little step back to gain some distance from him. “Well, hi. Good evening. That was quite a speech.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it, Miss Opal,” he says, eyes narrowing on me. I swallow.

“I don’t believe we’re acquainted,” I say, desperately trying to maintain my composure.

“Oh, we haven’t personally met before,” he says, pulling the olive from a toothpick with his teeth. I try not to grimace at the sound it makes. “But my associate over there told me he wishes you’d kept your hair as before. Apparently, he believes you destroyed your natural color.”

I glanced at where the mayor was gesturing and saw the same older gentleman from last weekend waving to me from across the room. I give him a little wave back, my heart positively pounding in my chest. Something about the interaction feels off, but I can’t put my finger on it.

“What he knows won’t hurt him,” I say, laughing and taking another sip of my drink. “So, how long have you been mayor?”

I know the answer to this—four years.

“Just a little more than four years,” he says, grinning again. “It’s been an amazing experience, and I’m so proud to serve my constituents.”

“Well, here’s to another term,” I say, lifting my glass and returning his smile.

“If I’m being honest with you, Opal,” he murmurs, leaning close to me, his expensive cologne wafting over me. “I’d like to toast to much more than that. Would you like to go somewhere more…private?”

I’m trying to study him, to figure out whether this is a ploy to get me alone, if my cover is blown, or if he’s just flirting with me like any man would. Deciding to take the risk, I down my drink, smile at him a little sloppily, toss my hair over my shoulder, and take his arm.

He leads me from the ballroom quickly, as though he doesn’t want anyone to see the two of us slipping out.

“Oh,” I say, when I bump into an older gentleman on the way out. “I’m so—”

“Numina divom accerso. Damnant te dormire,” the old man hisses, and all I catch is a flash of gray mustache as my body starts to sway. “Somno aeterno, nuptae, perduint te.”

Just before my chin hits my chest, and everything around me goes black, I think that this is the most inconvenient time to be having a stroke.

Chapter 5 – Byron

The cameras in the Metropolitan Ball Room are spectacular—crystal clear, and equipped with zoom. It makes it very easy to keep an eye on Olivia as she moves through the ballroom, chatting and clearly asking the bartender for water that looks like a cocktail.

As always, she looks beautiful, even if I’m not a fan of the wig she’s wearing. It makes her look too much like Veronica. I rub a fist against my chest, realizing I miss the familiar bright pink shock of her hair, and hate seeing her in these wigs that make her feel even more foreign to me.

Immediately after hanging up the phone with Olivia, I’d put a hand to my head.

“Stupid, stupid,” I’d muttered, shaking my head against my palm and closing my eyes.

“Careful,” someone had said, walking in behind me. “Say it too much, and you just might make it true.”

“Oh,” I’d said, standing up straight and coming face-to-face with Triste, the new Rosecreek mage. Tall and severe-looking, with blond hair so light that it’s practically white, Triste cuts a shocking image.

“It’s about your hair, no?” Triste asked, venturing further into the room and taking a seat on one of the chairs, crossing her legs under her robes.

“How did you—”

“Byron,” she’d said, tilting her head. “Come on. Magic.”

“You can read people’s minds?”