Page 45 of Peacock Me Like a Hurricane (Rise of the Resistance #2)
PHILOMENA
T he rhythmic clink of ice against glass underscored the room’s murmurs as I took a discreet sip, watching the frenzy unfold from my vantage point. The bleach heads darted across the floor with an air of frenetic grace, their pale locks bouncing in unison as they arranged extravagant bouquets and draped silken fabrics over every imaginable surface. The unity of their movements was almost hypnotic — a well-orchestrated ballet of obedience.
Whether we agree or not, we have to plan for this den of iniquity the cat planned.
“Can you believe it?” murmurs Leo, his words barely audible. “A party now? Of all times?”
“Doesn’t make a lick of sense,” replies Hex, frowning as he adjusts a crooked centerpiece. His hands moved ceaselessly, but his eyes are clouded with uncertainty, searching for a reason amidst the opulence.
I know what gnaws at their minds. Why risk it all for a night of revelry? It seems a gambit born of whimsy, a fool’s errand wrapped in silk and tied with a bow of folly. They’re blind to Deli’s purpose, unable to see the threads of the web she’s weaving with such care.
“Hey,” Caesar beckons his companions closer, voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you think there’s a plan we’re not privy to? Some grand design hidden behind this madness?”
“Whatever it is,” says Leo, casting a wary glance in my direction, “the bitch hasn’t let us in on it.”
But I know. Oh, I know exactly why she’s summoning the chaos of celebration.
A glint of worry shimmers in my eyes as I look away—a flicker almost imperceptible amongst the rush of preparations. I move with purpose through the chaos that fills the backyard, hands deftly rearranging a misplaced goblet here, smoothing a wrinkle there. I'm the eye of a storm our friend has conjured herself and I take that role seriously.
“Everything has to be perfect,” I murmur to myself, though loud enough for me to catch the edge of concern beneath the determination. Rafe’s eyes meet mine, and in that brief exchange, I understand his silent plea. This masquerade isn’t just another extravagant whim; it’s a lifeline thrown into the depths of despair where the artist has confined himself.
He’s doing this to try to dig out of his hole of pain.
I shift my stance, leaning against the intricately carved gazebo, observing as he approaches the towering doors leading to his sanctuary. He pauses, hand hovering over the golden knob, resolve momentarily wavering before he moves away from it. The artist is endeavoring not to run away from us as we prepare the fake event for our leader’s approval.
“Make sure he has no choice but to join us,” I instruct Sahara. “Tell him it’s not just about him tonight—he needs to be present for everyone else to see, too.”
The brunette nods, a mixture of confusion and obedience in her posture, then scurries away to fulfill another task on her list.
“Will he even come out?” Siren asks, breaking our unspoken agreement to communicate only with glances and gestures. “He has been so closed off since his break-up with the ex-family.
“He will,” I reply without hesitation, my gaze once again climbing the stairs. “He must. The cat wants us all to present a united front.”
As my attention returns to the final touches of the gathering, I ensure each decorative element is aligned with Deli and Hex’s meticulous vision. I realize the depth of the cat’s gamble—it isn’t just a party. No, it’s an act of salvation, a ploy to draw the artist out from the shadows of isolation and into the light of camaraderie. She wants to remind him that life pulses beyond his door, vibrant and waiting.
Plus, she has to present the assassin to the public as her mate and the baby’s father.
In that moment, I know my role in this pageant is more than a mere planner. Deli’s silent command was clear: be vigilant, ready to guide Rafe gently into the throng, and ensure he finds his place in public again. She wants him to be able to function without those who have betrayed him, especially in the wake of her latest announcement.
The clink of ice against glass punctuates the hum of anticipation as I wander into the kitchen, my eyes scanning for the artist who disappeared while I was checking the edges of the party zone. He needs this—needs to be pulled from the quagmire of self-pity that has become his sanctuary. Tonight, he’ll face the music, or more aptly, the laughter and chatter of a house reborn in revelry.
The Maison has always been the hub of fun and pleasure—people need to know that will not change with the addition of the peacock to our brood.
I glimpse him at the pool house, hesitating as he watches us all flitter about. His hair, normally a wild tangle of disinterest of late, is now tamed and styled. Rafe is still wearing his normal informal gear, but for today that’s fine. He will need to dress for the fetish ball, but I’m okay with baby steps in this case. One foot after another, he is descending into life once more.
Sidestepping the animated group of droids who are too engrossed in their gaiety to notice him, I sidle up to the man of the hour.
“Quite the spectacle, isn’t it?” I murmur, watching as our housemates check the signage we made for the magickal rooms. Their curiosity is piqued by the promise of otherworldly delights, but I know Deli has bigger plans than just fun and games. These rooms, with their illusions and whispered wonders, serve a greater purpose than entertainment. They are a ruse, a clever redirection from the true heart of tonight’s gathering.
She wants to keep people from being shitty about Taurus and this will help.
As the artist joins me for the tour of our dry-run, his eyes briefly meet mine with a silent plea for reassurance. I nod subtly, a gesture that goes unseen by others but understood by him. This is his chance to stop drowning in his own depths and start swimming towards the shore. If the magickal rooms keep the bulk of the guests enthralled, then perhaps he can find space to breathe, to be among us without the crushing weight of expectation.
“Let’s hope it works,” he mutters as he steps away from the pool house to be part of the group.