Page 4 of Pretty When She Breaks

It was showtime.

TWO

THE DUCHESS

I entered the suite, plastering a smile on my face as I took it all in. While I was The Duchess, this was my domain. The room was bathed in a low, warm light that came from golden chandeliers that hung from the high ceiling.

I was surrounded by carved, gold-painted panels, though you could barely see them through the large velvet drapes adorning them; artfully woven to create private alcoves.

The glassy marble floor reflected the lights above, illuminating the pillars that interspersed the walls and giving the sensation I was walking on water. The high-set tables were always decorated with fresh red roses to emulate my own scent, and screens were interspersed throughout the room to play the fights in case anyone wasn’t suited to the balcony.

Another kind of show would happen in my suite, the one I put on for my guests.

My job was to transform into the kind of companion they would enjoy throughout the evening. Most of my guests' preferences were the same—they wanted a pretty, airheadedtrophy. Someone to flatter them and flirt with them as they drank and discussed business with my father.

I walked over to the wall and pulled the gilded rope, opening the curtains to the balcony. There were baroque Roman-style benches for lounging, and deep, cushioned seats, all set next to tables with more roses. Glass railings let my guests have a clear view of the massive theatre below us.

I breathed in deeply, looking down at the masterpiece my father had created.

The Blood Well was a cylindrical atrium, with five levels of balconies overlooking the fighting pit at its base. It was dimly lit, the sparse lights illuminating the smoke curling in the air.

The screens mounted on the walls between the floors were blank, allowing the crowd to eagerly anticipate the moment when they’d broadcast the fights from every conceivable angle.

I watched as people leaned over the balconies, sipping drinks, while others sat at tables, the murmur of their conversation floating up to me. The largest and lowest level, Ringside, was just starting to fill up, so the noise wasn’t overwhelming yet.

At the center of Ringside was the fighting stage itself, a concrete pit most people referred to as the Sink.

It was bare, ringed with bars of steel and reinforced with chain-link fencing that stretched from floor to ceiling. Along the top, a single sheet of black netting was all that separated the Ringside patrons from the fighters in the Sink below.

That safety net was merely a comforting illusion; one snap of my father’s fingers and any one of the guests of the Blood Well could end up in the Sink.

I offered a generous smile as people turned to look up, nudging their companions. The attention—envy, awe, lust,reverence, even contempt—was energizing. And they expected me to enjoy it.

“Duchess,” my father said, coming over and taking my arm. The amusement in his tone held a dangerous edge of annoyance. “I was starting to worry you’d be late.”

“Apologies, Father. I was enjoying the view.”

“Our first guests are here,” he said briskly, leading me toward the elevators. We stopped at the doors, watching as the lights indicated our newest arrival’s ascension. I fixed my smile as the doors opened with a chime.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” I said, taking them in. They were new, and important enough for my father to personally introduce them.

The first alpha through the door was tall, with sallow skin and a prominent bone structure that made his face distinctly skull-like. His gaze raked me up and down before his face split into a sharp grin. He plucked his cigarette from his mouth with one tattooed hand and offered the other to me. I took it, trying to assess my best strategy with him. His expensive clothes and jewelry were in stark contrast to the cheap, bleached undercut he sported.

“Dax Jones,” he said, pressing a kiss to the back of my hand. “A pleasure to finally meet you, Duchess.” A sharp smile played on his face as amusement danced in his eyes. Nowthatwas a name I recognized from the conversations I’d overheard from my father. Dax was my father’s source of rofetamine, a drug he used for the fights, but I’d thought he was from out of town. Perhaps here for a visit?

“The pleasure is mine,” I replied, offering him a vapid smile.

The next alpha scowled as he was forced to duck his head when stepping out of the elevator. His dark hair was buzzed short, and a long scar wound from his left eyebrow to hishairline. His face was pale, and his eyes were sunken deep in his face under a heavy brow. As I looked up at him, he folded his arms, chewing his cheek while taking his time to look me over.

Dax stepped next to him, clapping his hand on his packmate’s shoulder. “This here’s Madison Swithwin,” he said, and Madison huffed at me. His sheer size was setting me on edge, and his potent scent was an overwhelming tang of copper and smoke.

“A pleasure,” I lied.

“And lurking behind this mountain is our third, but I don’t think you need introductions,” Dax added.

The last alpha stepped out from behind them, and I blinked, the duchess act slipping as I looked at him.

My heart started racing as I recognized his high cheekbones and angular eyes. His dark curls fell into his face as he flashed me a smile I hadn’t seen in years.