Chapter 82

#Chapter 82 – Bachelorette Victor doesn’t go home for dinner, though his text to Amelia suggested that he would. Instead, he stays at his club and keeps drinking.

It’s not normally in his nature to be drunk – Victor likes a clear head, solid control over his body.

Besides, with his Alpha metabolism, it takes a great deal to get him drunk. Even that night on the couch with Evelyn, she had been giggling after three drinks and he had been nowhere close to as bad.

He had perhaps pretended he was, to himself as well as her, but while she could blame her actions that night on the wine…he had been damn near sober.

But today, Victor wants to be drunk. Wants to lose his mind to the whiskey, to release his worries to the wind, to be blissfully unaware, for a few hours, of what he’s doing.

Amelia hadn’t sent him any texts, but she did tag him in her social media, so he knew that she, likewise, was out having her Bachelorette party. They followed tradition in all things, of course, which in wolf culture means they’re held on the same night so that they could end in The Hunt.

It was early yet – his hadn’t even started – but Amelia already looked stunning in a short, fluffy pink dress made of what looked like miles of tulle. It made her tan legs look like they ran on for miles.

Victor flicks through the media but doesn’t leave any comments, hearts, or thumbs-up on any of it. He considers that her attendance of her bachelorette means she’s moving forward with things, and, according to her huge smile in all of her pictures, is apparently thrilled to do so.

The wedding was going forth as presumed, then. She had accepted his terms.

Victor slowly shakes his head and put his phone face-down on the bar, signaling the bartender for another drink. Even if she had accepted it, was pressing on to the wedding…it still didn’t feel right.

Victor knows she has something else up her sleeve, and he hates the idea of not knowing what it was.

The bartender places another glass in front of him and Victor takes a hefty gulp from it, barely tasting the burning liquid.

Holding the half-empty glass up at eye level to stare at its contents, Victor considers the chess game that he’s found himself in the middle of. At the core of it, he knows that the thing he needs to protect is his children, his lineage.

His opponent in this game is not John Walsh, not really – Walsh is just a temporary distraction, an obstacle to overcome. Instead, the foe is, in many ways, the whole world out to take from Victor everything he has built – his wonderful life, his children. It’s a cruel, jealous world, Victor knows knows, eagerly waiting to rip everything from his hands. He has to fight against it.

But what’s his next move? He can see, on one hand, his future with Amelia – this wonderful, ferocious, willful woman who he knows to the core of him is his mate. His equal in every way.

But then…god damnit. Has Walsh put this idea in his head, or was it always there?

But then there is Evelyn. Victor huffs out his breath, knowing, on an equally visceral level, that there is something there, as well. Something with Evelyn. He has no words for it – he’s not sure there are words for it, or perhaps words so ancient they’ve been lost…

Victor blinks and rubs his hand down his face. Ancient words? What is he thinking of? He stares into his glass suspiciously. Perhaps he has had too much.

A hand slaps on his shoulder, making him jump.

“Oh ho, brother!” Victor spins and looks up into the face of his younger brother, Rafe. Rafe’s face is much like his own, but his eyes wilder, with purple bags beneath them. Though Rafe is two years his junior, in some ways he seems older, more tired.

“You getting started without us, big brother?” Rafe says, smirking at Victor. He signals the bar tender, who nods and begins to pour more glasses.

Victor looks over Rafe’s shoulder to see men pouring in the doors of the club. People whose faces he knows well – friends, cousins, classmates from his years at school, old teammates from childhood sports. He can’t help but smile to see them all – it’s been years, and he’s been so distracted. So much of Victor’s life is dedicated to his work that he’s neglected these old friendships.

Rafe squeezes the hand still on Victor’s shoulder. “You all right, brother? You look…drawn.”

“I’m okay,” Victor says, steadying himself and working to put on a happy face. Well, if not a happy face – he rarely has that – a less worried one. Victor looks down at himself and realizes that he’s not even dressed for the evening, still in the casual suit he’d put on this morning. “s**t,” he mutters, realizing that he’s also spilled some whiskey down his blazer.

“Come on, brother,” Rafe says, laughing. “Let’s get you fixed up.” They both grab their whiskeys and head towards the locker rooms of the sports club, where Victor’s Betas have delivered his clothes.

An hour later, the party is in full swing. The club is packed with Victor’s male associates, all dressed fashionably in suits and laughing as they drink and pick at the hors devours passed around by a pair of pretty cocktail waitresses. Victor stands at the back of this pack, his Armani suit perfectly pressed, drinking yet another glass of whiskey.

Rafe smirks at his brother, raising his own drink to his lips. “Doesn’t look like you’re having much fun, Victor,” he says, sarcastic.

Victor presses his lips together, holding back his true response. “This kind of tradition was never really my idea of a good time,” he murmurs.

Rafe laughs at him good naturedly. “What’s not to like, big brother? Whiskey, good times with the guys, and,” he nudges Victor with his elbow, “the good part is yet to come.”

Victor turns his head to look at his brother – really look at him. In some ways, Rafe looks just like him –

the genetic similarities run strong in his family. Rafe is also strongly built Alpha stock, with broad shoulders and a powerfully muscled frame. However, Victor had always found Rafe a little…

disappointing.

Rafe has always leaned into his role as the third son. With two brothers ahead of him to inherit the responsibilities of pack leadership, Rafe embraced the indulgences of life, with all the privileges of an Alpha and none of the responsibilities. Victor sips his drink, watching his brother laugh and wondering why he always resented Rafe for taking advantage of that kind of freedom. Perhaps he was a little jealous.

Or, Victor considers, perhaps he just sees Rafe for the waste of potential that he really is. Rafe could do so many great things, but he throws away his time on meaningless pleasures. Victor doesn’t know how Rafe can stomach that kind of life.

As Victor continues to look over his brother, a gong sounds at the back of the room. The collected men of the party begin to drop their voices in anticipation, knowing what’s coming next.

Victor grits his teeth – such a ridiculous tradition. He never would have agreed to participate in this if Amelia hadn’t insisted it would be “so much fun!”

The front doors of the room swing open, revealing a beautiful woman standing there, her nearly naked body painted gold like some kind of beautiful statue. She wears very little and is instead draped with flowers and vines, her face masked in an elaborate gold-and-green mask, her head topped by a pair of antlers.

“Gentlemen!” she says, drawing all attention to her as more women walk slowly, ceremoniously, into the room. These are likewise dressed in whisps of fabric and painted in gold, but they lack their leader’s animalistic qualities. Instead, they’re dressed as flower maidens who carry gold bowls, filled with scented water in which rose petals float.

“We hope you have enjoyed the evening’s festivities so far,” the woman continues, posing sensuously in the center of the room. “But now it is time to begin the evening’s true ceremony.”

A low grumble begins to sound in the chest of the men in the room, an eager buzz of excitement. Victor runs a hand down his face, not joining them. He drains his glass of whiskey and signals the waiter for another.

“Please, let my handmaidens walk amongst you. Let them anoint you, marking you as the sacred vessels you are.” Victor rolls his eyes and accepts his glass from the waiter. The handmaidens do indeed begin working their way around the room, anointing the men by dipping their fingers into the bowl and brushing the water across the guests’ lips.

“For tonight,” the woman says, locking her eyes on Victor and beginning to move slowly across the room towards him. “You are the hunters, in search of prey.” As she passes a handmaiden, she dips her hand in her golden bowl and then brushes her fingers across her own lips.

“Tonight,” she says, drawing close to Victor and taking the lapels of his suit coat in her hands, “you begin the chase.” With that, she stands on the tips of her toes and presses her lips to Victor’s.

Exhaling, Victor surrenders to the tradition, letting her kiss him deeply as the men around him howl with excitement.

As she pulls away, smirking at him, Victor growls.

The water, he knows, is laced with a mild hallucinogen. Somewhere else in the city, Amelia is undergoing a similar tradition, her own gold-painted hunter delivering a kiss to start The Hunt.

By the end of the night, he will chase her down and consummate their relationship, marking her as his own once and for all before their wedding ceremony.

The drugs mix with the whiskey in his blood, rising him to excitement. Victor gives himself over to it, glad for the release from his worries. He puts his head back and howls with his friends, who cheer.

Now, they will search for their prey.