As the Offering’s smile wavers, I’m wondering why I even bother.
Heather is sitting across from me, her hands folded in her lap, posture perfect, spine straight, trained to a fault. She’s wearing a soft blue dress that sets off her eyes, though I can’t help but see the obvious nerves in them.
“The wedding,” Adrian says at last. “There’s only a month left until the ceremony. Annaliese”—Sebastien’s new wife, and a pretty decent party planner—“will handle most of the details for you two, but she needs your input to finalize them.”
Fuck. That’s right. This isn’t just another meeting where the shy Offering gets used to me. Nope. I’ve already sat through a couple of those, and now that Adrian’s yanked a date out of me for when I’ll go through with this shit, he wants to at least give the old guard a spectacle so they can’t pretend I didn’t do what they wanted.
The charter says that every high-ranking Order member must be married before they turn thirty if they want to keep their positioning—that and the so-called privileges that come from being at the top. I managed to avoid getting hitched, and after Jack’s death, with the figurative crown on my head, no one could tell me what to do.
At least, that’s what I thought. And then, a couple of months ago, some of the old guard fuckingmutinied, and it became clear: not even the King is an exception to the marital clause that was built into the Order two centuries ago.
Back then, it was all about continuing the Order. Those at the top needed to marry ‘good stock’, breeding the next generation with the best the current one had to, well,offer. If I refused to follow the Order laws, I would be removed from power. Simpleas that. And while I never wanted to be the King, they’ll have to lop off my head before I willingly relinquish the crown.
Not until I take Jack’s legacy and burn it to the fucking ground, that is.
The charter says take a bride by your thirtieth year. Taking in account last August, when Jack’s murder shocked the Order enough that they allowed me to skip the end of summer Claiming ceremony, I’ve been ‘generously’ allowed a year’s reprieve.
And that’s why, by the time I turn thirty-one, I’ll be married.
Not because I want to be. I don’t. But the Order requires it, and it’s one fight not worth the trouble. So I never wanted to get hitched after Lucy left me. This… this isn’t a love match. It’s barely an arranged marriage.
It’s an… understanding. I’ll put my ring on Heather’s finger if it’ll quiet the uprising against me, and she can tell all of Harmony Heights that she’s Mrs. Dallas Collins if she wants. As long as she understands that she can’t have anything more from me other than the protection that comes with being the King’s Offering.
It’s not like I can give her my heart. Not when I left it in Lucy’s hands, and she took it with me when she?—
Heather clears her throat gently. I scowl, more at my distracted thoughts than that the soft sound disrupted them. She flinches, just enough to be noticeable, and I do everything I can to dial my aggression back.
After all, it’s not her fault that I’ve been backed into a corner. She’s the best chance I have at shutting the old guard up and keeping my position as King, even if I’m only doing so because a Collins male is a stubborn bastard, and I’ll never give my old man the satisfaction of knowing that his only boy was as big of a fuck-up as he always thought I was.
I jerk my chin at my ‘fiancé’. “Go on. I’m listening.”
“Um. Well… the florist confirmed the soft pink roses I showed you last time,” Heather says after a moment. “And the date you accepted works for my parents, too, so I guess that’s settled. My mother wanted me to ask if ivory is acceptable for the invitations, or if?—”
“Ivory is fine,” I tell her. Invitations? Why do we need invitations? Anyone with an Order brand will be at St. Catherine’s to kiss my ass and see the King take a bride. “Pink roses, too. Whatever you want. We just have to get this done.”
She nibbles on her bottom lip, then gives a short nod. “Of course. I understand.”
The fucking awful thing is that I’m sure Heather does. She probably had her eye on another Owed—or maybe hoped she could get out of the society’s bullshit tradition of arranged marriages—before my cousin picked her as the one Offering who was willing to tie herself to Dallas Collins while also satisfying the charter’s requirements.
I should’ve changed it. Yeah, we did the decent thing, shutting down the trafficking ring Jack started, but instead of using my influence to cover up how he embezzled from the Order before Adrian… handled him, I should’ve ended the Claiming ceremonies. I should’ve used a goddamn Sharpie to draw a big ‘x’ through the clauses that outlined how high-ranking members needed to be married by thirty.
I didn’t. Should’ve, but I didn’t, and now I’m sitting here, planning a wedding that I’m not so sure I can bring myself to attend.
As though he can tell my head’s not in it—and my heart sure as hell ain’t—Adrian purses his lips. Leaning back in his seat, one ankle resting on his knee, he watches the chilly exchange between Heather and me closely, too smart to do anything other than serve as a silent referee.
I… can’t. I can’t do this. I mean—fuck, I’ll do it. When the alternative is to abandon the Order that’s already cost me so much… yeah. I’ll do it, but I have time. A month. I have a month, and that means that I don’t have to sit here another minute longer with a younger woman whose only flaw is that sheisn’tLucy Wright.
Ignoring the weight of Adrian’s stare on me, I ask bluntly, “Is that all? Anything else you want to talk about?”
Not surprisingly, Heather darts a quick peek over at Adrian, then back at me when he probably gives her a sign that it’s best that we end the meeting earlier than expected.
“No. I think that’s everything for now?—”
Sir. It’s on the tip of her tongue. I’d put money down on it. See, Heather has no idea what to call me. ‘Mr. Collins’ is fucking ridiculous, ‘Dallas’ is too familiar when she barely knows me, and nearly everyone in the Order defaults to ‘sir’ ever since I took over for Jack… but she’s going to be my wife, isn’t she?
“Dallas,” I offer. “Do me a favor. Call me ‘Dallas’.”
Relief flashes over her pretty features. “Okay.Dallas.”
