Alpha Betrayed: A Dark Shifter Romance

Juliet

Jean-Paul knocks on my bedroom door for the third time, calling in a wheedling voice, "Can I come in now? Pretty please. I need to see it on her, Madame Duval. I'm on pins and needles."

"Five more minutes," Madame Duval, a curvy young woman with pink cheeks and dazzling blue eyes, calls out. "She can't walk until I get the hem out of her way. It's way too long."

"I don't care about the blasted hem," Jean-Paul growls. "I need to see the overall effect. I don't just want royal or queenly, Duval, I want iconic. I want a gown my people will remember for decades. I want the second coming of f*****g Princess Diana. If it isn't right, there's still time to send the stylist for more options, but only if we move quickly."

"Relax, you won't need another dress, but you also can't rush genius. Go have an espresso with Chef and come back in ten minutes. We'll let you in then, Mr. Impatience," Madame Duval shoots back.

Jean-Paul curses colorfully, but surprisingly storms off down the hall outside without further complaint.

Madame Duval laughs before adding in a voice for my ears only, "You're going to knock his socks, shoes, and tighty-whities off, mon amie. This gown is stunning on you. Princess Di wishes she looked this good in white." "Thanks," I say with a tight smile.

I'm not sure how much Madame Duval knows about the compulsory nature of this marriage. I didn't bother asking. Whether she knows or not is irrelevant. She's as much under Jean-Paul's control as I am, a fact made clear by the anti-shift collar around her throat and her presence within these walls. "So, if I had a favor to ask him in advance of the wedding, right after the dress reveal would be the time?"

She clucks her tongue, nodding as she continues to pin the front of my gown up so just the toes of my kitten heels show below the silk fabric. "Oui. Jean-Paul is a great appreciator of beauty. He'll be so wonderstruck; he'll give you whatever you ask for. So long as it isn't your freedom."

She glances up, shooting me a meaningful look before tucking her chin and beginning to pin again. "I strongly advise against asking for that, no matter how much time passes or how close you think you've grown to our mercurial king. Once he feels a subject's loyalty is assured, Jean-Paul usually gives the worst of his games a rest, but don't make the mistake of thinking that means he's changed. If he wants you to go, he'll show you the door. Until then, you should assume you're here for life and make the best of it." "How long have you been here?" I ask, refusing to think about a life spent in this gilded cage with a madman holding the key.

I escaped from the circus, after being assured a hundred times by the other prisoners that gaining my freedom was impossible. I'll escape from this prison, too. I just need time to figure out the weaknesses in Jean-Paul's fortress...or one hell of a distraction. "I'm not sure," Madame Duval says with a bubbly laugh. "Like I said, I've learned to relax and make the best of things. But it's been at least a few years since this happened." She motions to her neck. "I asked Jean-Paul for a leave of absence to visit my mother in Quebec City. She was very sick, and I thought it might be my last chance to say goodbye. He locked me in the dungeon to teach me a lesson. I shifted, slipped past the guard during feeding time, and nearly had the grate off the drain in the corner when he caught me. I haven't shifted since." She shrugs and sits back on her heels, fluffing the bottom of the skirt. "I miss my little wolf sometimes, but there are worse fates." She smiles and nods with satisfaction. "There. That's falling nicely. Take a walk around the room for me. Let's see how it moves."

I step off the wooden fitting block and sway across the room, keeping my expression neutral even as I congratulate myself on this new piece of intelligence. If the drain in the cell block is big enough for a wolf to drop down inside, I should be able to slip down there in either of my forms.

If I end up in the dungeon, I might still have options, but I'm going to try my best to avoid it. If Jean-Paul is as easily swayed by beauty as Madame Duval says, surely, he'll grant his lovely bride this one, teensy, tiny, little favor.

"Breathtaking." Madame Duval presses a hand to her ample bosom as I turn and walk back toward her. "You're a vision. You just need a little color to brighten up your eyes." She reaches into her purse and pulls out a small pouch that reads Beauty Secrets: Keep Out. "May I? Just a little blush and lipstick? Maybe some mascara?"

"Yes, please," I say, tipping my chin up as she comes to stand in front of me. Like most fully grown humans, she's taller than I am, but not by much. If she's one of Jean-Paul's former lovers, it seems he prefers short women. Daphne is also petite, no taller than five feet two or three.

I wonder if this will be me someday, happily welcoming in the latest subject of his fascination, grateful that the madman who forced me to marry him has grown bored with me and is moving on.

As soon as the thought is through my head, I kick it back out again and slam my mental door. I'm not going to be here long enough for anything like that to happen to me. I'm going to get out of here tonight, before I have a chance to find out if Daphne was kidding about Jean-Paul's "gherkin" or if that bed in the corner is as soft as it looks.

"Okay, blink for me," Madame Duval says as she holds the mascara wand up to my face. "Slow and easy. Perfect. Just a few more. Mon dieu, your lashes are so long! A shame that they're blond and don't show without mascara. You should have them tinted so they always frame your eyes. Talk to Sheila, your hair stylist, when you're at her salon. She has the best connections. I'm sure she knows someone who wouldn't mind swinging by the compound tomorrow to do a quick lash tint. You want to look your best for the newlywed phase. Waking up looking like a million bucks can be a priceless commodity in Jean-Paul's world."

"Gag," I mutter beneath my breath, earning a smile from the other woman.

"Well, yes, but just make it through the first few months and you'll have more freedom and peace. It gets better. I promise." She steps back, her smile widening as she surveys her work. "Perfect. Go stand by the window. The light streaming in will hit your hair and make you look like an angel come to earth."

"No need for the window," a reverent voice says from the door. "She's already heavenly."

Madame Duval and I turn to see Jean-Paul standing in the doorway, his fist pressed to his lips and his eyes glassy with emotion. "Stunning, a vision" he murmurs. "I couldn't have asked for more. This...this is the bride I deserve. This is the woman made to rule beside me, my equal in every way. This is why the others didn't work. The goddess was putting obstacles in my path, ensuring I was still a free man when Juliet Zion came into my life."

I didn't "come into his life," I was kidnapped, but pointing that out isn't going to win me any points with my fiancé.

But I also can't be too cooperative, or he'll smell a rat.

Treading that fine line to the best of my ability, I glance down at the plunging neckline that shows almost everything I do-or don't-have going on up top. "You don't think it's too revealing?"

"Absurd." Jean-Paul snorts and moves deeper into the room, his gaze fixed on the dress as he circles me slowly. "It's perfect. Modesty is for prudes and Americans. You come from French ancestry on your mother's side. Own it. And we're shifters. Sensuality is in our blood. My people would be distraught if you showed up at the church tonight in some terrible lace up to your chin."

"Speaking of showing up to the church," I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. "Would it be possible for Bethany to join us for the ceremony? I'd love to have someone seated on my side of the church."NôvelDrama.Org holds this content.

"Oh, but you will," Jean-Paul says, reaching out to adjust the fall of the gown on one side. "I'm having the League of Young Female Professionals and their boyfriends sit on your side. I'm sure many of them will become your friends in the coming months, anyway, so that should be perfect."

"That's great, but they're not family. Bethany and I have known each other for most of our lives," I say, fudging the truth a bit as a I add, "Honestly, she's probably the person I would have chosen to be my maid of honor, if I'd had a more...traditional wedding." Jean-Paul shifts back a few steps, his eyes narrowing on mine. "If you think this is the way to gain freedom for you and your cousin, you're very mistaken. You will be heavily guarded, the church will be heavily guarded, there is literally no way you'll be able to escape."

"I know," I lie, fully intending to prove him wrong and yell "niener niener, I just chopped off your gherkin wiener," on the way out. "I just feel very...alone right now. I'd feel less alone if Bethany were there with me." Jean-Paul brings his fist back to his lips as his jaw works back and forth, as if he's literally chewing on my request to see if he's interested in digesting it further.

Finally, after a long pause, he nods. "Consider it done. You may have your maid of honor."

I pull in a breath to thank him, but he cuts me off with a raised hand. "But she will not be wearing pink. Redheads in pink are an abomination. I'll put her in a black gown to match my best man's black tuxedo. My half-brother will be standing up with me." He rolls his eyes. "Even though he's a useless idiot who never should have been allowed out of my mother's womb. What kind of woman decides to have a baby in her mid-forties anyway?"

"I think it's fairly common these days," I say.

He snorts again. "Well, it wasn't thirty years ago, and Griffin was clearly crafted from ancient, sub-par DNA. He's a fool with a weak chin, but at least he's too stupid to consider challenging me for the throne." He emits a soft, considering laugh. "Maybe we should marry him off to your cousin? She'd have a father for her bastard baby and our families would be knitted together so tightly, they'll never be torn asunder. Huh." He taps his chin thoughtfully. "It's something to think about."

He grins, beaming as he claps his hands together. "So much to think about, so much to plan, and so much to look forward to!" He points a finger at Madame Duval. "Get her out of the dress and work your magic with the alternations." He shifts his finger my way. "And you, prepare for your styling appointment. The guards will come to take you to the salon soon. I'll see you at the rehearsal at six. Sadly, I have business to attend to elsewhere and won't be able to ride with you."

He starts toward the door, spinning around at the last moment to add in a boisterous tone, "Good work, ladies! Keep it up and we'll have a wedding to remember!"

"We most certainly will," Madame Duval says, turning back to me and guiding me back up on the fitting block. As she unzips the back, she whispers just inches from my ear, "Any experience picking locks? Just nod or shake your head. The room is bugged."

I nod, my pulse picking up as she adds in that same almost unintelligible voice, "Good. I'll sew a small lock-picking kit into the hem of the dress, in the back by the spray of flowers on the train. Wait until you're in the bathroom at the church and see what you can do about the collar. There shouldn't be any cameras or bugs there. If you can get that off..."

She doesn't have to finish the sentence. I know what happens if I get this collar off. I'll be able to burn that church to the ground.

I'll just have to be sure Bethany isn't in there when I do.

But the maid of honor usually walks down the aisle before the bride. Chances are Bethany and I will have a moment, even if we're guarded, when we're outside the sanctuary while everyone else is inside.

It's a chance. A good one, and one I wouldn't have without this brave woman.

"Thank you," I say, holding her gaze as I wrap up in the robe she offers. "So very, very much."

"Of course," she says with a breezy laugh. "Every bride should have a perfect dress. It's my pleasure to help provide you with yours." She moves toward the door, the dress slung lightly over one arm. "And good luck tonight. Captives aren't allowed out for pack events, but I'm sure my clients will fill me in on all the gossip when I'm fitting them for their coronation gowns. It's tradition for the new queen to be crowned three months after the wedding, so you'll already have another fabulous party to look forward to. And a fabulous new dress."

"Sounds like a good time," I say, lifting a hand as she slips through the door.

But it doesn't, of course.

Vengeance, however?

That sounds like a great time.