Page 70 of Storm

The restaurant is exactly what I expected—all gleaming marble and soft lighting, with discreet private rooms for elite patrons who don't want to be seen by the common folk. We're led through the main dining area to a door at the back, where a host gives Jonathan a nod before ushering us in.

Jonathan's fathers are already seated at a large round table, three imposing figures in expensive suits, radiating power and privilege. They stand as we enter, their sharp eyes immediately landing on me. I force myself to keep my gaze down, studying the intricate pattern of the carpet instead of meeting their assessing stares.

"Jonathan," the first father says, his voice crisp and commanding. "You're late."

"Traffic, Father," Jonathan replies smoothly. "May I present Storm?"

A large hand enters my field of vision, and I have no choice but to take it, allowing myself to be led forward. I risk a glance up, finding myself face to face with the oldest of the three—Father One, as I've come to think of him. His eyes are the same green as Jonathan's, but colder, harder.

"Is she still causing trouble?" he asks, assessing me with a clinical detachment that makes my skin crawl.

I bite my tongue to keep from responding, remembering my promise to behave.

"She's smaller than I expected," says Father Two, moving to circle me as if I'm a horse at auction. "But passably attractive, I suppose."

I dig my nails into my palms, forcing a bland smile onto my face as rage bubbles in my chest.

"Come, sit," Father Three says, gesturing to the table. "Let's not waste time on pleasantries when there's business to discuss."

The seating arrangement is clearly predetermined—the three fathers on one side, Jonathan at the head of the table, with me to his right, then Alexander. Reed sits across from me, and poor Frankie is at the far end, as distant from the fathers as possible while still being at the same table.

"Wine?" Father Three offers, already gesturing for a waiter to pour.

"None for the omega," Father One intercepts. "She appears spirited enough without it."

I keep my eyes on my plate, resisting the urge to tell him exactly where he can shove his wine.

The dinner proceeds with excruciating slowness. Course after course of food I barely taste, conversation that flows around me as if I'm not there. The fathers ask pointed questions about the lottery incident, about how Jonathan is "managing" me, about plans for a formal claiming ceremony.

I answer when directly addressed, keeping my responses short and neutral, though I can't quite manage to keep my face from showing my distaste. Every time Father Two suggests a "training regimen" to make me more "suitable," I feel my expression slip into a scowl before I can school it back to neutrality.

Frankie, poor soul, is completely ignored, treated like furniture rather than a person. I catch his eye occasionally, trying to convey silent support. He gives me small, encouraging smiles in return, though I can see how uncomfortable he is.

"The real issue," Father One says as the main course is cleared away, "is how to salvage the situation. She's clearly not suitable for the Kingsley name, beta-born as she is."

I tense, sensing the direction this is heading.

"We've had inquiries," Father Three says, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. "The Blackwood pack has expressed interest. They're lower elite but established. Willing to pay handsomely to take her off our hands."

"They don't care about her beta-born status?" Jonathan asks, his voice carefully neutral.

"They're desperate enough not to," Father Two replies with a dismissive wave. "Nine alphas, no omega. They're willing to overlook much for a fertile omega, even one with... questionable lineage."

My stomach turns at the casual way they discuss trading me like a commodity. Nine alphas. The thought makes my blood run cold.

"They will keep her hidden away, never to be seen from again," Father One continues. "You’ll claim she died before the bond could be completed. By then, you’ll have secured a match with the Governor’s niece—Daisy—an elite omega whose bloodline will bring greater power and alliance to the Kingsley name."

Daisy is the niece of the Governor?What the fuck.I can't help it—I look up, meeting his gaze directly, my disgust plain on my face. Father One smiles, a cold, reptilian curve of his lips.

"She doesn't like that idea," he comments, as if observing an interesting specimen. "But her thoughts are irrelevant."

"Father," Jonathan begins, his voice tight. "I don't think?—"

"You don't need to think," Father Two cuts in. "This is the solution. The Blackwood offer is generous. The papers will be arranged by the end of the night."

A cold sweat breaks out across my back. A night. They're planning to hand me over to nine strange alphas tonight?

"Alexander," Father Three says, turning to the quieter twin. "You've been silent. What's your opinion on the matter?"