Alpha Betrayed: A Dark Shifter Romance

Juliet

We arrive at the Montreal docks mid-morning and my would-be husband wrenches my wrists behind my back before leading me down the gang plank.

As we make our way onto solid land, I see tourists not far away. Families spread blankets on the grass of a riverside park, while a few teenaged boys ride bikes on the street. I dare to hope one of them will notice the way Jean-Paul holds my arms pinned behind my back as he pushes me forward and call the police.

But Jean-Paul nips that in the bud with a whispered, "We're glamoured, chère. Magicked into invisibility. Don't fret about the human observers. Thanks to my witchy friend, they won't see a thing."

"Friend is stretching it, Jean-Paul," a silky female voice I haven't heard before murmurs from not far behind me. "Don't you think?"

I didn't notice any women on the boat-only Jean-Paul's beefy bodyguards and a few male sailors in charge of steering the ship through the narrow river locks.

Whoever this is must have been in the hold the entire time.

Jean-Paul laughs. "Well, friend. Traitor. Lover. Slave. The lines blur after a few decades, don't they, darling?" To me, he adds, "Daphne once had the chance to be my bride, but she chose to betray me instead. This was a most unfortunate mistake. I advise you to learn from her fate and be a loyal mate, sweet Juliet." He chuckles as his hand molds to the curve of my a*s. "Except in the bedroom, of course. There, I encourage you to be as wicked as you'd like."

Swallowing the acid rising in my throat, I say flatly, "Does that extend to ripping off your d**k and stuffing it down your throat?"

Daphne laughs, the sound as velvety and smooth as her voice. "You've just kidnapped your death, Jean-Paul. This one is more than you bargained for. I would pity you if I weren't also quite keen to see you separated from your d**k."

Jean-Paul chuckles too, as if this is all just normal, friendly conversation. "You know I adore strong women, Daphne. Juliet should feel free to speak her mind and make as many jokes as she wishes. I won't have it said that the King of Montreal doesn't have a sense of humor. As long as she knows when to shut her mouth and spread her legs..." He squeezes my a*s again, hard enough to make me flinch this time. "Well, we'll get along just fine."This is the property of Nô-velDrama.Org.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," Daphne says. "He can't get it up most nights. Too much blow. And even when he is hard, it's not much bigger than a baby gherkin. You won't feel a thing." Jean-Paul's laugh is strained this time. "Careful with your falsehoods, little witch, or you'll end up in my playroom. And we both know you're terrible at having fun."

"May I be dismissed to ride with the sailors in the SUV then, master?" Daphne asks, her sarcasm almost concealing the fear in the words, but not quite. Whatever this "playroom" is, I clearly don't want to end up there. "If you have no further need of me?" "Go," he says as we come to a stop by a shiny black limo. He pulls a dark cloth bag over my head, making the world go fuzzy. "But be at dinner tonight and be prepared to impress. The Alpha of Quebec City is coming to discuss the terms of her city's transfer to my control. I'll be counting on you to step in and deliver the appropriate attitude adjustment if she asks for more than a loser like her deserves."

Daphne murmurs something I can't make out, followed by the soft click of her heels on pavement as she walks away. A moment later, Jean-Paul's hand is on the top of my head pushing me down. "Bend over, princess. Sorry about the hood. Just want to make sure you won't have an easy time finding your way out of my territory should you be foolish enough to run. I'll remove it when we get to the restaurant, and we can discuss wedding plans over brunch."

I step awkwardly forward, my heart leaping as I trip on part of the car and tumble into the floor between the seats.

"Careful there, clumsy one." Jean-Paul chuckles as he drags me up into a soft leather cushion, his hands everywhere, all at once.

I clench my jaw, fighting another wave of sickness. I refuse to think about this man's "gherkin" getting anywhere near me. I'll figure out a way to escape before then. Or I'll jump out a window. The power-blocking collar he's locked around my throat keeps me from shifting or accessing my phoenix gifts, but I can still move around of my own free will, and I'd rather break both legs than end up in his bed.

I don't want to be with anyone but Ford that way.

Ford...

He has to be alive. He has to have escaped the ambush.

Surely, if he were dead, I'd know it.

But I can't feel anything right now. My shifter senses are numbed by the collar and the miles between us. As the limo pulls away into traffic, I'm more alone than I've been since I left Ford at that motel room and zoomed off into the hills on a stolen motorcycle. But back then, I hadn't had real friends in years. I hadn't realized what I was missing.

Now, I do, and I ache for my people.

I hope they're all in one piece-Chase, Layla, Alexander, and Catherine, each and every one. As long as they're still breathing, there's hope. I can still figure out a way to reclaim Lost Moon and take down my father. Montreal may have turned against us, but they're just one city. Maxim has bigger, stronger allies in Boston, Washington D.C., and down the eastern seaboard. We just need time to regroup and plan a bigger, more forceful offensive.

As I silently brainstorm battle strategies my father won't be expecting-we could tunnel into the university or blast a hole in the wall too big for them to defend and worry about rebuilding later-Jean-Paul drones on about wedding flowers and possible venues. "I have pictures of both the chapel on my property and the abandoned church with the lovely stained glass on my phone. I can show you while we eat," he says. "My chef friend has arranged for a private table in his garden, so we won't be disturbed. If we trust our hearts and make decisions quickly, we should have all the details sorted by noon and I'll put my personal secretary on the case. I visualize, he materializes. It's an excellent arrangement. As a ruler, it's important to have a strong team surrounding you, supporting your vision. Don't you agree?"

"I wouldn't know," I say. "I've never been a ruler."

"But you were a ruler's daughter and Hammer is a formidable man. Surely, you learned many things from watching your father lead."

"My father didn't include me in his life." I shift on the seat, moving a little farther away from Jean-Paul's too-warm body and roaming hands. "And I wouldn't lead like him, anyway. I'm not an unhinged a*****e."

"You're just a normal a*****e, then?" Jean-Paul chuckles at his own joke before grabbing my thigh and pulling me back toward him. "I'm just kidding, chère. I enjoy your surly side. And I understand this is all very sudden for you and might make you a bit crankier than usual. But I must insist that you play nice with me at brunch and choose the venue for our vows. Letting the groom choose is bad luck. My mother insisted this was true and the reason she and my father parted ways so violently. I don't want that for us. I want us to find harmony and happiness, not poison in our morning coffee and a gun under the pillow at night."

"Don't give me any ideas, Jean-Paul." I force a teasing note into my voice that is clearly well-received, judging by the giddy, high-pitched giggle that emerges from his throat.

"Oh, mon petit chou, you're perfect," he says, whipping the hood off my head so quickly that I gasp in surprise. "And we're here. Chef Pierre's Fat Bottom Toast. The best brunch in the city. I want nothing but the best for you, chère. From now until death do us part." Blinking as my eyes adjust to the bright morning light, I scan the world outside for a friendly face, but we're parked in a narrow alley behind several stone buildings. And when we step out onto the cobblestone street, the air is quiet, with only the faint drone of conversation from the front of the structure.

Still, for a moment, I consider screaming for help.

But then Jean-Paul motions to a flight of stairs, leading up to the top of the building and says, "After you, darling," and I change my mind.

The buildings here are very close together. If I can get away from Jean-Paul, I can run along the tops of them until I find a better place to come down and escape. Or I can stick with my original plan and jump off the roof. Surely, a girl with two broken legs splattered all over the sidewalk during brunch will attract a decent amount of attention.

Crossing my fingers that I'll get a window, no matter how small, for escape, I start up the rusted metal stairs toward the roof garden, trying to decide which breakfast food-aside from scalding hot coffee-has the highest likelihood of being used as a successful weapon.