The spa is tuckedinto the top floor of a modern office building, all glass and minimalist design. I can smell essential oils from the lobby, hear the soft trickle of water features.
Violet stops dead in the entrance. “Wait. What?”
“You have an appointment.” I start to guide her toward the reception desk, where a woman in crisp white waits to greet us.
But Violet doesn’t budge. “No. Absolutely not.”
“You can’t look your best if you’re not rested and relaxed.” I use my most reasonable tone. “The gala is stressful enough without adding unnecessary tension.”
“The company is not covering this.” She crosses her arms. “There’s no possible way.”
I lean down until my lips brush her ear. “It’s my discretion. The budget has to be used up, or I’ll lose it next year.”
She pulls back, studying my face. Her voice drops. “Darius…”
“Go.” I push her lightly.
The receptionist clears her throat delicately. “Ms. Violet? We’re ready for you. We have the full treatment package prepared.”
Violet looks between me and the receptionist, and I can see the exact moment she gives in. Or gives up.
“Fine,” she mutters. “But this is the last thing.”
I bite back a smile. “Of course.”
She follows the receptionist through frosted glass doors, glancing back at me once with an expression I can’t quite read. Nervous? Hopeful? I think she wants to believe this is okay but doesn’t quite dare to.
The doors close behind her.
I exhale slowly, running a hand through my hair. My wolf is content, pleased that we’re providing for our mate. Even if she still doesn’t know that’s what she is.
The receptionist returns. “She’ll be about two hours. There’s a coffee shop on the ground floor if you’d prefer to wait there, sir.”
“Thank you.”
But I have other plans.
The jewelry store I have in mind is three blocks away, upscale and discreet. It’s a human-owned boutique, one of the oldest in the city. I push through the heavy glass doors into a world of gleaming cases and soft lighting.
A woman in a satiny black dress approaches. “Can I help you find something?”
“I need a set. Necklace, earrings, bracelet, the works.” I move to the nearest display case, scanning the contents. “Rubies. Emeralds. Diamonds.”
Her expression remains perfectly neutral. “Of course. Do you have a particular style in mind?”
“Elegant. Not ostentatious.”
She pulls out several options, laying them on black velvet for my inspection. I take my time selecting them, imagining how each piece would look against my mate’s skin.
“Excellent choices,” the saleswoman says as she begins wrapping each piece, her tone professional. Ten minutes later, I leave with a stylish shopping bag, the weight of it satisfying in my hand.
After all, this is not merely jewelry. Not simply trinkets to dress her up for a gala.
It’s a claim. A statement.
She’s mine.
Even if she doesn’t understand it.
