Page 51

Prince Charming

Isobel gathered her thick hair into a ponytail as she ran a critical eye over her Icon Cafe uniform.

She smoothed her palms against nonexistent wrinkles in the skin-tight fabric, and then, after wasting as much time as possible getting ready in the bathroom, she walked back into the cafe and collected the tray she was supposed to be carrying to her table.

Mornings like these were beautiful. That was the worst part.

The richness of coffee permeated the air, mingling with the buttery scents of pastries and the sweetness of decadent little desserts, each of them smaller and more extravagant than the last. The false star-strewn rock ceiling hung high above, soft, feminine laughter mixing with deeper, masculine chuckles.

The polished marble floors reflected a smooth, golden light from the glittering crystal chandeliers.

The gossamer curtains covering the private rooms swayed with every shift in the air, wrapping up each pretty little secret whispered beyond them.

Each room was its own stage, with plush velvet chairs for the performer and the audience, facing each other across a table of delicacies.

She hated how pretty it all looked. How polite.

Only a short walk away, there was a mirrored room lined with sex toys, waiting to strip away their polite smiles. She hated that they were all pretending this was civilised when it was anything but.

Mikel was already in his booth. And so was Tilda Anderson.

Again . She relaxed into her velvet wingback chair, facing away from Isobel so that her expression wasn’t visible.

One long, perfect leg was crossed over the other, her stiletto dangling lazily in the air.

Even that moment of apparent carelessness seemed deliberate and calculated.

Perhaps she wanted their encounter to appear casual and effortless.

She sipped her tea like it was champagne and touched Mikel’s hand like he was still hers.

He immediately pulled his hand from the table, but it didn’t stop the sour clench in Isobel’s stomach.

She didn’t know what made Tilda come back over and over again.

Maybe it was possession. Tilda had marked Mikel as her own a long time ago, and she didn’t sound like a woman who enjoyed losing or being outsmarted.

Or maybe it was something uglier. Maybe Tilda liked the way Mikel resisted her.

The way he sat like a man carved from stone, mismatched eyes fixed on the far wall, his mouth a hard, bloodless line.

Maybe it made her feel powerful, watching him suffer.

Knowing she was the only one who ever got close enough to make him flinch because nobody else wanted him. Or maybe it was just delusion.

Mikel didn’t move. He hadn’t moved since Tilda had walked in—other than to slide his hand out of reach. That hand, now resting on the arm of his chair, curled slightly—just enough to show he knew Isobel was watching. That she had seen the moment of contact.

She forced herself to look away, searching out the others.

Moses and Oscar had taken up posts in the kitchen.

People were starting to ask for Moses more often, but, as with Oscar, one date seemed to be enough for most. Neither of them got repeat customers.

Not even the ones who lasted the entire hour without bursting into tears or running away.

Gabriel’s booth had a folded napkin sitting precisely at the edge of the table, untouched.

He sat rigidly on the very edge of his seat, as if the plush cushions might betray him.

The girl across from him had placed a hand on the table, halfway between them, hesitant and hopeful.

Sometimes, the other Icons-in-training would hold the hands of their dates.

Gabriel didn’t even notice. He was too busy staring at the curtain.

Elijah also sat like a statue. Silent and stoic.

A plate of untouched finger sandwiches was between him and the girl who had booked him.

She was talking fast, like she was racing against an invisible clock.

He glanced down at his phone, which had lit up.

He touched a button and said something to her that looked suspiciously like “time’s up,” before pulling out his tablet and tuning her out completely. Her expression was crestfallen.

Theodore, Cian, and Kilian were magnetic as always.

Cian’s laughter was easy and husky, a little too polished.

Theodore leaned in with perfect posture, hands steepled beneath his chin, his eyes a little too dead.

Kilian tilted his head just enough to give the illusion of sincerity.

Niko’s curtain was wide open. He was alone.

Eating strawberries dipped in chocolate and throwing the stems into a champagne flute.

If his client had ever arrived, they were already gone.

Kalen bore the conversation of the two women who had booked him, managing to nod and squeeze out the occasional syllable. He wasn’t going to last long.

And then there was Bellamy.

He stood at the far end of the room, near the grand piano nobody ever touched.

His clothes were rumpled, eyes mismatched and haunted, and he looked like a prince on the wrong stage, unsure what play he had stumbled into.

She jolted a step toward him, and his eyes swung toward her.

Brown and green. He managed a slight smile before Ethan, the manager, ushered him into a curtained room.

She sucked in a breath, trying to calm her racing heartbeat as most of her mates lifted their eyes to seek her out, feeling the surge of her emotion.

Her tray wobbled slightly as she flashed a reassuring smile and straightened her spine, moving toward her room.

One of the teacups tilted and tipped to the side, rolling around the porcelain saucer, flashing something small and black tucked beneath it.

A bug.

They were all over the Icon Cafe these days.

She didn’t react, simply righting the empty cup and striding into her room to set the tray on the table. The air was thick with the scent of too-strong cologne and now, suddenly, of consequence.

Because there he was. The man from the night before. The worm.

He smiled when he saw her. It was the smile of a man who thought he had power, which was astounding considering the last time she had seen him, she had thoroughly humiliated him and whipped him with a crop.

He didn’t stand to greet her but waved his hand at the seat across from him. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced,” he said. He thought he was charming. “My name is Jeff.”

She sat politely, as she had been lectured to do. She let him leer, as she had been lectured to do.

“Would you like to order?” she asked, her eyes on the table. If Mikel saw him …

Shit .

The other Alphas didn’t know what he looked like, but this was a recipe for disaster.

“You’re even prettier in daylight,” Jeff said, voice low and slick, like honey poured over something spoiled. “I was worried you might be angry with me.”

Isobel passed him a menu, careful not to let her skin crawl too visibly. His scent was a thick, musky cologne of stale breath, and something else. Shame, maybe. It clung to him like sweat.

“Why would I be angry with you?” Sir , Yulia’s voice barged into her head. Male guests will be addressed as “sir,” and female guests as “ma’am.” This isn’t a tragic little fan signing; it’s a fan experience .

Jeff leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands folded. “I’m glad you’re not. You were incredible last night.”

Her eyes drifted off to the side, pretending to be overcome with shyness.

Her gaze flicked to the edge of the curtain where the silky fall of fabric parted just slightly, a whisper of light catching the glitter of the chandelier.

She imagined that little bug recording this stilted, awkward conversation, filing Jeff’s words away into some little cupboard.

Potential pervert. Tier One Collateral Event.

She stilled, glancing back at the tray. Every word was being recorded.

She forced a smile. “I’ve been thinking about last night too.” Her brief glance up at him was full of timidness.

“I figured.” He smirked, still full of all that baffling confidence, sure of his own power. And why would he think otherwise? He had paid for her twice now.

She tilted her head, watching him watch her, letting the moment stretch out, blossoming with all the naivety and shyness that she could muster.

“I wonder …” She chewed on her lip. “I’m kinda new to … all that, you know? Have you always known you were into …” She pressed her thumb to her mouth, chewing lightly on her nail, knowing her face was crinkled in hesitation. “I mean, do you like all girls, or just girls like me?”

He blinked. She saw the hesitation flicker across his face.

And then the arrogance returned. “I prefer them innocent,” he said, his voice dipping lower.

“That’s something most men don’t understand.

It’s better when they’re unspoiled and malleable—and that’s you, right?

” His eyes attempted to rip apart her dress. “The Princess of Ironside?”

I’ve been spoiled ten times over, asshole . She bit the words back. They weren’t even technically true. Elijah hadn’t spoiled her yet. Moses had only spoiled her throat.

She could feel the blood rush behind her eyes, could feel the heat pooling at the base of her skull, flooding her with fury and disgust, but she didn’t move .

“How do you find girls like that?” she asked, voice still soft. “Isn’t this world full of sluts and whores?”

His eyes glittered. Emboldened. He gobbled up her language like the bait it was.