Chapter 66 Fashionable Life
CORMAC
The chandeliers drip crystal and old money. Vampire money. The kind that bought Parliament seats and pack territories and wolves like me.
I stand in Mordaunt's ballroom wearing a suit that cost more than most packless wolves earn in a year. The irony isn't lost on me. Three months ago I was the heir apparent, untouchable. Now I'm a performing monkey in a waistcoat, smiling for predators who could drain me dry before I finished screaming.
"Alpha Brennan." A vampire glides over, all grace and ancient power. Lord Castellane, runs half the blood clubs in Mayfair. "What a delightful surprise to see you here."
Delightful. Right. Like I had a choice when Mordaunt sends an invitation.
"Lord Castellane." I incline my head the exact amount required. Not too deep, shows weakness. Not too shallow, shows disrespect. I've learned this dance. Every movement calculated. "The pleasure is mine."
His smile shows too many teeth. "And how is pack life treating you? I heard you've had some recent... staffing changes."
Declan. He means Declan defecting to the Rookeries like a coward. Like a traitor. My hand tightens around the champagne flute until I hear the glass creak.
"Growing pains." I keep my voice light, unbothered. "Every new Alpha faces adjustments. My father's old guard stepping aside for fresh blood. Natural progression."
"Of course." Castellane's eyes gleam with amusement. He knows I'm lying. They all know. "Still, losing your Beta so soon after taking power. Some might call that... unfortunate."
I want to rip his throat out. Watch him choke on his own blood. See if vampires bleed as pretty as they pretend.
Instead I smile. "Fortunate, actually. Revealed a weakness in my inner circle before it could fester. Better now than during a crisis."
"How pragmatic." He sips his wine. Not wine. Blood. Fresh, judging by the color. "You've learned quickly. Your brother never had that particular skill."
My brother. Of course they'd bring up Callum. They always do.
"My brother had many skills," I say carefully. "Pragmatism wasn't among them."
"No." Castellane's smile widens. "I heard he's become quite the little organizer in the Rookeries. Forty packless wolves following him now, isn't it? Impressive for an exiled Omega."
The number hits like a physical blow. Forty. How does Castellane know the exact count when I don't? My own spies can't get solid intelligence from the Rookeries but Parliament's creatures know everything.
"Forty desperate wolves," I correct. "Following a desperate leader. It won't last."
"Won't it?" He tilts his head, studying me like I'm a particularly interesting specimen. "Desperation creates loyalty, Alpha Brennan. You should know that better than anyone."
Before I can respond, another voice cuts through the crowd.
"Cormac! There you are."
Mordaunt himself, gliding across the ballroom like he owns it. He does own it. Owns this house, owns half of Parliament, probably owns me at this point though I'm still pretending otherwise.
"My lord." I bow deeper this time. Mordaunt deserves the deference. Demands it.
"Leave us, Castellane." Mordaunt waves dismissively. "I need a word with my young friend."
Castellane melts away without argument. That's power. Real power. The kind I thought I'd have when I became Alpha.
Mordaunt guides me toward the balcony with a hand on my elbow. His touch is cold even through my jacket. Dead flesh. I suppress the shiver trying to crawl up my spine.
"You're tense," he observes as we step into the night air. London sprawls below us, lights twinkling like the city doesn't contain monsters. "The Beta's defection bothers you more than you're admitting."
"I'm handling it."
"Are you?" Mordaunt leans against the railing, completely at ease. Six hundred years of existence will do that. Make you comfortable anywhere. "Because from where I stand, you're hemorrhaging support. Three pack members executed in two months. Your Beta defecting to join your exiled brother. Whispers that you're unstable, paranoid, unfit to lead."
Each word is a knife between my ribs. "Those are lies."
"Of course they are." His tone says he doesn't believe me. "But perception matters more than truth in our world. You know this."
I do know this. It's why I framed Callum so carefully, built the perfect narrative of betrayal and embezzlement. Made people believe he was guilty because the story was cleaner than the truth.
Now that same strategy is being used against me.
"What do you suggest?" I hate asking. Hate needing his help. But I need his help.
"Consolidation." Mordaunt studies his fingernails like we're discussing the weather. "Your pack is divided. Half loyal to you, half questioning. The questioning half needs to be removed."
"Removed."
"Exiled. Executed. I don't particularly care which." He finally looks at me. "But a house divided cannot stand, and your house is crumbling. Callum's success in the Rookeries makes you look weak by comparison. A strong leader would eliminate that comparison."
"You want me to kill him."
"I want you to secure your position." Mordaunt straightens. "How you choose to do that is your concern. I'm merely pointing out that your current approach isn't working."
The ballroom doors open behind us. A female vampire emerges, young looking though probably ancient. She wears a gown that costs more than my townhouse and carries herself like royalty.
"Lord Mordaunt." She curtseys perfectly. "Forgive the interruption."
"Lady Ashford." Mordaunt inclines his head. "No forgiveness needed. What can I do for you?"
"I wanted to meet the famous Alpha Brennan." Her eyes fix on me with predatory interest. "The wolf who tamed the Brennan pack so efficiently."
Tamed. Like I'm a dog trainer instead of an Alpha.
"Lady Ashford is generous with her praise," I manage.
"Not at all." She glides closer. Vampires don't walk, they glide. It's unnerving. "I admire efficiency. Your father ruled through sentiment and tradition. You rule through strength and decisiveness. It's refreshing."
Is that what I'm doing? Ruling through strength? Some days it feels more like ruling through terror and barely controlled chaos.
"My father was a great Alpha," I say carefully. "I'm simply adapting his methods for modern times."
"Of course." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "And how is your brother? I heard he's becoming quite influential in the slums."
There it is again. My brother. Always my brother. Can't go five minutes in supernatural society without someone asking about Callum like he's the interesting story and I'm just the footnote.
"My brother is surviving in the only place that would have him," I say through clenched teeth. "The Rookeries suits him. He always had a bleeding heart for lost causes."
"Forty lost causes now, I heard." Lady Ashford tilts her head. "That's quite the following for an exiled Omega with nothing to offer but hope."
Hope. Like hope ever fed anyone or kept them safe or built anything lasting.
"Hope dies quickly in the Rookeries," I say. "Give it time."
"Perhaps." She studies me like I'm a puzzle she's trying to solve. "Or perhaps your brother is better at leadership than you give him credit for. Building loyalty from nothing is harder than inheriting it, after all."
The implication stings. That Callum's forty desperate followers are more impressive than my inherited pack. That building something is harder than taking something.
Maybe it is. But I have what I have and he has what he has and only one of us gets to be Alpha.
"If you'll excuse me." I set my champagne glass on a passing tray. "I should make my rounds."
"Of course." Lady Ashford's smile sharpens. "Do give my regards to your brother if you see him. Tell him we're all watching his little experiment with great interest."
I walk away before I say something that gets me killed.
The ballroom is packed with vampires, a handful of other Alphas, various supernatural creatures all pretending we're civilized. All pretending we don't want to tear each other apart.
Alpha Greaves catches my eye from across the room. His pack borders mine, has for three generations. Our fathers maintained careful neutrality. Professional respect without friendship.
Greaves doesn't look respectful now. He looks calculating.
He approaches with his Beta in tow. "Brennan. Good to see you."
"Greaves." I don't offer my hand. Neither does he.
"Heard about Declan." Greaves sips his drink. "Shame to lose a good Beta."
"Declan made his choice."
"He did." A pause. "Interesting choice though. Joining your brother instead of simply leaving. Makes one wonder what he knows."
My jaw tightens. "Declan knows nothing worth knowing."
"Doesn't he?" Greaves leans in slightly. "Or perhaps he knows exactly what's worth knowing. Perhaps that's why he left."
I want to hit him. Want to shift right here in Mordaunt's ballroom and show him what happens to wolves who question my authority.
But that's what they want. Want me to lose control, prove I'm unstable, give them excuse to challenge my position.
"If you have accusations, make them clearly." My voice drops low. Dangerous. "Otherwise, keep your speculation to yourself."
"No accusations." Greaves raises his hands in mock surrender. "Just observations. Your pack seems... restless. Your brother seems busy. Parliament seems interested. Observations, nothing more."
He walks away before I can respond.
I'm surrounded by wolves and vampires and I've never felt more alone.
The evening drags on. More conversations, more barely veiled insults, more questions about Callum disguised as polite interest. Every interaction reminds me that I'm not secure. Not respected. Barely tolerated.
By the time I escape to my car, my face hurts from smiling.
The drive back to Kensington should calm me. Doesn't. My mind won't stop circling the same thoughts.
Forty wolves following Callum. Declan defecting. Vampires watching with interest. My pack divided. Mordaunt suggesting consolidation through elimination.
The silver wound in my side throbs. Callum's parting gift from our battle. It's not healing right. Infections setting in despite the wolfsbane treatments. Another reminder that my twin brother nearly killed me.
My phone buzzes. Text from Marcus, one of my remaining loyal wolves.
Rookeries activity increasing. Brennan crew recruiting heavily. Estimate sixty wolves now.
Sixty. Twenty more in the week since I last checked. He's growing faster than I can suppress.
I pull over, hands shaking with rage. This isn't how it was supposed to go. I was supposed to be Alpha. Callum was supposed to disappear into the Rookeries and fade away. Instead he's building an army while I'm dancing for vampires.
Another text.
Also: Castellane asking questions about the trial. Wants transcripts.
My blood goes cold.
The trial. The evidence. The witnesses I paid. The frame job. If anyone looks too closely, if anyone starts pulling threads...
I dial Marcus immediately.
"My lord?" He answers on the first ring.
"Castellane's interest in the trial. Shut it down."
"How?"
"I don't care how." My voice comes out harsher than intended. "Bribe him, threaten him, kill him if necessary. But those transcripts don't get reviewed."
"My lord, he's a vampire Ancient. I can't just..."
"Then get creative." I hang up before he can argue.
The drive home passes in a blur. By the time I reach the townhouse, my jaw aches from clenching.
The house is quiet. Too quiet. My pack should be here. Guards, Omegas, someone. Instead it feels empty. Abandoned.
I pour myself a drink in my father's study. My study now. Everything is mine now.
So why does it feel like I'm losing?
My phone buzzes again. Unknown number.
Having fun at the ball? - V
Valentina. Callum's little spy. How did she get this number?
I don't respond. Won't give her the satisfaction.
Another buzz.
Lady Ashford's right. Hope dies slowly in the Rookeries. But you? You're dying faster in Kensington. Everyone sees it.
My hand crushes the phone screen.
She's wrong. They're all wrong. I'm not dying, I'm consolidating. Building. Preparing.
But the words echo in my head anyway.
Everyone sees it.
Do they? Do they see me weakening while Callum strengthens? Do they see the cracks in my authority spreading wider every day?
I catch my reflection in the window. Same face as my brother. Same eyes, same bone structure. Seven minutes older and a lifetime different.
Except we're not that different anymore, are we? He's in the Rookeries fighting for survival. I'm in Kensington doing the same. Different settings, same desperation.
The silver wound pulses with infection. I should see a healer. Should deal with it before it gets worse.
Instead I pour another drink.
Tomorrow I'll consolidate. Eliminate the questioning wolves in my pack. Send a clear message about loyalty and consequence.
Tomorrow I'll be the Alpha they expect me to be.
Tonight I'm just a wolf in a mansion, watching my empire crumble while my brother builds one from nothing.
My phone buzzes one last time.
It's Mordaunt.
Lady Ashford asked an interesting question tonight. How is your brother becoming so influential with nothing but hope? I think we both know the answer. He's a better leader than you are. But that's fixable. Come see me tomorrow. We'll discuss permanent solutions.
I stare at the message until the screen goes dark.
Permanent solutions.
He wants Callum dead. Wants me to kill my twin brother to secure my position.
The terrible thing is, I'm considering it.
No, that's not the terrible thing.
The terrible thing is, I think I decided to do it months ago. Everything since has just been working up the courage to admit it.