Tilly Ann.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. Something that might have been admiration —it was there and gone so fast I almost missed it. "You are… different."
"Why? Because I don't lick your boot like every bloody female you've ever met?. Shirt. Now."
He began unbuttoning his dark coat, then the white shirt beneath. He moved with a slight awkwardness, his shoulders tight—not from reluctance, I realized, but from effort.
Like the simple act of undressing cost him something.
I noticed, too, the slight tremor in his hands when he reached the last button, the way his breathing had gone slightly ragged beyond simple exertion.
I'd been too lost in my own body earlier to notice such things.
He pulled the shirt off, revealing a torso that was all lean muscle and pale skin. A small scar ran through his left eyebrow—new since childhood—and when he wasn't smirking, his mouth settled into something almost sad.
I tried not to look at the way his shoulders tapered to his waist, the dusting of dark hair on his chest, the evidence that this man worked—those calluses I'd felt, those working hands, they came from somewhere.
He held the shirt out to me without a word.
I snatched it from him. It was still warm from his body and smelled like him—clean, woodsy, that undeniably Alpha scent I'd hated myself for noticing.
I turned my back, struggling out of my torn dress and pulling his shirt on over my head.
It was too big, the sleeves covering my hands. I rolled them up viciously. I felt a little more covered, a little less shattered.
With my habit of stealing Kessington's shirts or my father's jackets, it wouldn't be odd seeing me wearing this.
Without a word of thanks, I shoved my ruined dress and drawers into the grain sacks and marched past him, my bare feet slapping the cold floor. He didn't try to stop me.
I made it to the closet door, my hand on the knob— then a strong arm shot out from the chair and clamped over mine on the knob.
"Wait. Someone's coming" He whispered.
I didn't pay him any attention. Because if Chase Dubois thinks he was going to trap me in a closet again to do things to me again, he was out of his mind.
"Stay" He commanded.
I scuffed. "I'm not a dog. You cannot —"
Before I could break his little fingers or complete my sentence, he used his other arm to shove me back—not hard, but with shocking, precise force.
I stumbled back into the storeroom, and he pulled the door shut after him.
"What are you—?"
Then I heard them. Voices. Walking into the receiving room.
My mother's light, nervous laugh. And a deeper, authoritative voice I didn't know—rich and commanding. Alpha Kale Dubois. His father.
"...so pleased the children are getting acquainted," my mother was saying.
"Indeed," the deep voice rumbled.
I pressed my ear to the door, Chase's bare chest inches from it. I could almost feel the heat radiating off him, could hear the slight rasp of his breathing—labored, I realized. Like holding me back had winded him.
"Son," Alpha Kale's voice called. "Have you seen your brother?"
Brother?
My head snapped up. I hadn't known Chase had a brother. Hadn't heard anyone mention a sibling. The question hung in the air, unanswered, and I filed it away for later.
"No," Chase called back, his voice steady despite his breathing. "Haven't seen him."
"And Tilly Ann?" My father's voice now, joining them. He sounded anxious.
I held my breath. This was it. This was the part where he tells them everything—where he exposes me, humiliate me, take whatever twisted revenge he'd been plannin—.
"What the fuck is a Tilly Ann?" he called out.
The words hit like ice water.
I knew—knew—why he'd said them. I understood the performance, the protection, the necessity. But knowing didn't stop the burn. Didn't stop the way my chest collapsed inward, the way something cracked open behind my ribs.
It was like I was ten years old again and Chase stupid Dubois was pretending I didn't exist again.
It...stung.
Outside, my mother laughed nervously. "Tilly Ann is our daughter. You met her earlier"
I waited for his apology. I took a peek from the little peep hole in the store. I saw him shrugged one bare shoulder. "Sure. If you say I did"
It was the shrug that did it or maybe his words.
The casualness of it. The way he could dismiss me, dismiss this—whatever this was—with a twitch of his shoulder.
I yanked open the door.
"Tilly Ann!" Mama's voice pitched high with alarm. "Where have you—what are you wearing? Is that a man's shirt?"
But I wasn't looking at her. I wasn't looking at my father, or Alpha Kale Dubois, or the servants hovering in the doorway.
I was looking at Chase.
Still shirtless. Still in that wheelchair. Blood still pounding through his veins while mine felt like it had frozen solid.
I crossed the distance in four steps. Someone—my mother, probably—made a sound of protest.
Chase's eyes widened. Just slightly. Just enough.
For one horrible moment, I hesitated. His face was pale, his breathing shallow. Hitting him felt wrong. But then I remembered the shrug. The dismissal. The way he'd made me feel like nothing. Eight years ago and then now.
My fist connected with his perfect nose.
"Son of a—" He barely got the words out before I hit him again, across the face this time, my palm stinging with the force of it.
"What. The. Fuck. Is. A. Tilly. Ann?" I screamed, each word punctuated by the desire to hit him again. "I AM TILLY ANN. You know I'm Tilly Ann. You've always known I'm Tilly Ann! You Sanctimonious ass! You humiliated me at ten years old. You will not do that again!"
My mother made a sound like a teakettle about to boil. My father's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. Alpha Kale Dubois looked at his bleeding son, then at me, then back at his son, and said nothing—but his eyes had gone sharp.
Father chuckled slightly before adding,
"She's usually sane, Alpha Kale. My daughter, Princess Tilly Ann." His gaze wandered to Chase Dubois. "Your future wife."
"Oh," Chase said, the sound dripping with disinterest despite the blood streaming from his nose. "It's going to be an interesting marriage."