“Measurements for what?”
“For your attire.” Lucien says it as though the answer is self-evident, which in his mind it is. “For the ball. Obviously.”
She’s surprised.
The expression is small but unmistakable—a fractional widening of her eyes, a micro-pause in her breathing, the physiological indicators of a woman whose expectations have been exceeded in a direction she didn’t anticipate. Her storm-gray eyes move between Lucien and me with the particular focus of someone recalibrating an assessment.
“You’re actually going tomakeit?”
The question carries a note that the void doesn’t fully suppress—something adjacent to wonder, or the memory of wonder, the faint trace of what wonder used to feel like before the void absorbed it into the managed vacuum of her emotional landscape.
“We love forms of creation,” I say, and theweemerges naturally this time—the plural pronoun that includes my brother without requiring his explicit endorsement because the creative impulse that drives us is shared genetic material that operates on a twin frequency neither of us has ever needed to negotiate.
“And we’ll be a whole lot faster than any sewing mistress who thinks she’s the shit,” Lucien adds from the stove, his voice carrying the particular indignation of a man whose professional standards have been offended by the competition. “Especially in Savage Knot.”
Victoria’s eyes narrow by a fraction—the observational adjustment that precedes a targeted inquiry.
“I’m assuming you checked out the lady that’s here.”
The question is delivered with the flat precision of someone who already knows the answer and is asking for the pleasure of hearing it confirmed. She’s referring to Savage Knot’s resident seamstress—an institution-appointed garment specialist whose work I evaluated within our first forty-eight hours on Academy grounds and whose skill level I classified asadequate for standard requirements and catastrophically insufficient for anything we would produce.
We nod.
In unison. The synchronized motion that our bodies default to when the subject matter involves professional assessment and the conclusion is unanimous.
“Never again,” we declare.
Also in unison. The twin frequency broadcasting a shared trauma that the seamstress visit apparently produced—a creative injury so profound that neither of us has processed it independently and both of us have processed it simultaneously, arriving at the same two-word verdict through separate cognitive pathways that converged on identical conclusions.
Victoria’s mouth does something.
Not a smirk. Not a smile. Something in between—a muscular event that her face produces in response to the synchronized horror of two men who have been traumatized by bad tailoring, and that the void permits to reach the surface because it apparently classifies twin-frequency fashion disgust as non-threatening emotional content.
Dominic steps into the conversation.
He does so physically—moving from his position at the window to the kitchen island with the particular stride of a man who has been observing the group dynamic from the periphery and has decided that the dynamic requires the direction that only a Prime can provide.
“We need to talk about the game plan for the masquerade.” His voice is the Prime register—authoritative, structured, carrying the particular weight of a man whose designation means that when he speaks about strategy, the pack’s attention is supposed to align accordingly. “And how we’re going to ensure this works in our favor.”
His aged-whiskey eyes sweep the room—cataloging positions, assessing readiness, performing the particular survey that Prime Alphas conduct when they’re preparing to lead a planning session. The eyes linger on Victoria for a fraction of a second longer than they linger on anyone else, and the fraction carries information that I file for later analysis.
Lucien responds from the stove without turning around, his hands occupied with the preliminary operations of meal preparation—the knife meeting cutting board, the pan receiving oil, the choreography of cooking that he performs with the same precision he applies to garment construction.
“Can we do it after dinner,jeez?” The exasperation is genuine—Lucien’s particular variety of annoyance that emerges when practical needs are subordinated to tactical ones before the practical needs have been met. “Trying not to be a party pooper here, now that she’s recovered.”
I back him.
“Let’s eat first.” My voice is even, measured—the clinical register that communicates support without drama. “I can’t strategize on an empty stomach.”
Hawk chimes in from his position behind Victoria’s stool, where he has relocated after the kiss and has assumed a standing posture that places him within arm’s reach of her without occupying her immediate space—the spatial compromise of a feral Alpha who wants to be closer and is choosing not to be.
“Four against one,” he observes, the cigarette—still unlit—bobbing between his lips. His amber-gold eyes carry the particular amusement of a man who has found himself in an unexpected alliance and is enjoying the mathematics.
Dominic huffs.
The sound is expelled through his nostrils with the particular force of a Prime whose authority has been overruled by democratic process—a governance system that the Prime designation does not recognize as legitimate but that the current circumstances require him to accept. His jaw tightens. His aged-whiskey eyes perform a circuit of the room that communicates his dissatisfaction to each person individually before settling on a point in the middle distance that allows him to be annoyed at everyone simultaneously.
“Whatever.”
