Corrupted (Alpha's Claim Book 5), Addison Cain [top 20 books to read TXT] 📗

blankets, extra pillows in a variety of colors beyond the red of the room.

Nothing was white.

The man only wore black. No embellishment, no embroidery, a stark opposite of what Brenya had seen in Central. Imagining him standing before Parliament in such pristine starkness, it was easy to see that the other men would look even more foolish beside the Beta who had taken power.

Brenya never left the room.

The first time he had, she had followed procedure upon his return. Arms around his neck after he entered, she’d asked which chair he might find most comfortable. When she had reached for the fastenings of his trousers, though he was obviously hard, he had taken her wrists and pulled her hands away.

He did not look pleased as he demanded, “What are you doing?”

What was she doing? Embarrassed and oddly insulted, she had given no answer. After all, she had clearly asked him that first night not to use her mouth while she had stitches… and he had not.

Throwing off her touch, the Beta walked away. “Go for a walk.”

“I’m sorry. A walk?”

“Leave the room, Brenya. Walk anywhere you want. You have your own guards waiting to escort you.”

“Anywhere I want?” It was a trick. It had to be a trick. The one and only walk she had taken since coming to Central had almost started a riot.

It was like he could read her mind. “Standard protocols have been put in place to move unmasked male populations away from areas Omegas want to stroll from noon until four. As you are my wife, and as I trust you not to abuse your people’s schedules, I expect that you will do your best not to inconvenience those who are working should you wish to leave the grounds at other hours.” Back to her, his voice barked a stiff, “Areas can be suggested for you to tour. No one will touch or bother you.”

She did not want to go.

Life had been somewhat palatable in the Red Room. The food had been simple, the hours had been quiet, and there had been no buzzing pliarator or bruising grip.

“Get out!”

Her skin might have been left behind she ran so fast. Throwing open the door, dressed only in his shirt and another pair of plain drawstring pants, she found the guards—biosuits, armed, reliant on canistered air—waiting.

“Greetings, Mrs. Havel.”

Before she might untie her tongue and form some kind of reply, a shot of pleasure spiked right between her legs. On a gasp, she put her weight against the door at her back and felt an uncorked wave of slick go right down her leg.

Lightning struck her spine, a tiny pool growing at her feet as electricity spread from leaking, empty cunt to every extremity.

Seconds away from blinding orgasm, fighting the urge to reach into her pants and ferociously rub her throbbing clitoris, Brenya pointed at a door across the hall. “What is in there?”

“Every room in this quadrant of the Palace is vacant.”

Perfect. She ran the short distance, throwing the door closed and locking it before any of the men might see her fall to her knees. The scream of her climax was trapped, Brenya having bit down on her forearm until she tasted blood.

Dazed when it was over, finding herself sprawled on hands and knees—fully presenting—she rolled to her back and panted at the ceiling.

Projections of this very fresco were available in the museums. The story of the Red Consumption and the lovers torn apart. Cloaked Death pulled naked women from their reaching men. Women from women. Men from men. No love had been spared.

Famous poets summed up this work, long dead yet still remembered.

And it was right here, in a vacant room where all the furnishings were draped to protect from dust and light.

Aftershocks still quivered between her thighs, her confusion blending with relief… and also humiliation. She knew she should not have left that room.

One look at Alpha guards and this is what became of her?

No wonder Jacques thought she enjoyed his attention.

A light knock came to the door. “Madame, the Commodore has suggested you return to your room and rest. He says you will not be disturbed for the remainder of the day.”

Why she laughed, Brenya didn’t know.

Jules was gone by the time she found the energy to peel her body from the soaked floor. Padding barefoot across the hall, she went right back to her home in the Red Room.

Bernard Dome’s new Commodore returned at dark, stern as he asked her to take a seat across from him.

Glaring.

The very look of Jules Havel was so intriguing that she stared right back.

Tension did not exist between them, even though it was neigh an hour before he broke the silence. “Whatever training you received from Jacques Bernard is not a performance I expect from you.”

“What do you expect me to perform?” So far, the only thing he had ordered her to do was walk, and that had not gone well.

“The Queen of Greth Dome has asked my permission to exchange letters with you. She is a kind woman and someone I respect. The first arrived today, along with pictures of a painting she is creating as a gift. I believe it would be appropriate for you to create a gift in return.”

Sweat prickled Brenya’s brow at his tone, Brenya’s thoughts darting to the slick-soaked pants she had stuffed into a crevice in the bathroom.

Without missing a beat, Jules Havel continued, “You have a skill for clockwork, I understand. You dropped a cog in my ship.”

It was she who broke their extended eye contact, glancing to the side while scenarios flipped through her conscious. Make a clock? From random pieces? Not just take one apart and put it back together. “Yes, I would very much like to make the Queen of Greth Dome a clock.”

Very much!

Little tools and gears. Hours focused on the minutia. There would be so many glorious mistakes.

Twitching fingers were already working imaginary bits and bobs. Ships were relatively big. It could be as