A moment of weakness cost her months of agony.
And yet… And yet she still did not regret it. Not completely. The fleeting moment of peace she’d taken with him lingered with her. When the grief of her mother’s death became too much, rolling as it did in dark, brackish waves, she sank into the bliss of the memory. It wasn’t healthy, not when she needed to forget, but she couldn’t be forced to stop, either.
Camille shook out her long limbs, stubbornly willing away the last of her shivers, before she scrubbed her skin and hair with whatever products her staff stocked the shower with. She didn’t care what they were or how much they cost, so long as they helped get Viktor’s pheromones out of her pores and washed the memory of his touch away.
That done, she rinsed with quick efficiency and exited the shower. She never felt better, per se, after her ritual, but a little more in control. The beast inside of her quieted, and the craving became a smoldering ember rather than an inferno.
Drying off with a plush white towel, she padded over to where her tablet lay on the counter. A quick touch brought it to life. Camille’s grip on the towel tightened as she read the notifications scrolling across the top of the clear screen.
A message from her brother, who had finally joined his own consort in Paris and looked to be living it up on a tour of France’s finest vineyards, lit up the screen. He attached a photo of them both looking blissfully happy as they sat in little wicker chairs beneath a green canopy, wine glasses in hand.
A tight ball of anxiety momentarily loosened. Good, she thought, ghosting her fingertips over the image of Cameron’s dear, usually somber face. You deserve your happiness.
Their mother was dead, after all. Though they both loved her, Camille didn’t begrudge Cameron for ignoring the official mourning period to run off with his consort. Her brother finally felt free to live. She wanted that for him more than anything else in the world.
Reluctantly swiping his message away, the other notifications followed in a cascade: official documents about potentially selling her shares in their family vineyard to Cameron, client inquiries about shipments of wine, and, most importantly, responses from the families she and her mother had sent proposals to. Negotiations halted when her mother became too ill to function, but now, a month after her death, Camille decided it was time to pick things up again.
Apparently, the families agreed.
Wrapping her towel around her torso, she picked up the tablet and walked out of the bathroom. Marble floors gave way to soft carpet as she made her way to her bed. She perched on the edge and, ignoring the water droplets that slid down her neck, opened the first of several replies she’d received.
Miss Solbourne,
I am delighted to hear from you again. We would love to continue our discussion about a possible union between yourself and my son Cyrus. For your convenience, I have attached my schedule. Please let me know what day would be best for a meeting.
Regards,
Arabella Noor
Head of the Noor Family and Noor Foods Inc.
Camille’s throat constricted as she scanned the rest of the messages. All but one response to her query was positive. Despite the fact that elves were now free to pursue romantic relationships with Others, the prominent families she reached out to hadn’t changed their minds about negotiating a union with her.
Theodore threw open the door to the world, but people didn’t change overnight. Not everyone was willing to leave things up to fate, after all. Contracted unions were mostly safe and politically expedient. In her case, they were even life-saving.
She let out a shaky breath and set her tablet aside. Relief mingled with queasiness. It appeared that her bid to find a spouse was still viable. That was a good thing, even if every instinct said otherwise.
Her mother’s plan to get her safely ensconced in another powerful family’s embrace would be a success. It had to be. Camille wasn’t sure she could survive much more torture.
The only problem was that she didn’t think Theodore would agree.
Camille hated asking anyone for permission. It wasn’t that she was unused to it, but rather she was too used to it.
After thirty-five years under her grief-stricken mother’s thumb, Camille learned to despise her lack of agency. Her mother’s rapid decline and death had propelled her into being the head of their small family unit, finally allowing her the space to take charge of her own life, but until the day she pledged her allegiance to another name, the ultimate authority would always lie with Theodore.
She hated it on principle even as the beast in her understood it was necessary. Her elvish nature craved the steadfast understanding of hierarchy. It needed to know its position in the world like her body needed meat and water and air. Theodore was her alpha, though elves didn’t typically use the word. He made the laws by right of his strength and his sacrifice for the people under his care. Instinct recognized the safety to be found in his shadow.
That didn’t mean she liked it, though — particularly when that position meant she was required to inform him of her upcoming nuptials.
Stepping out of her apartment for the first time since the internment of her mother’s ashes in the Solbourne temple, Camille eyed her stoop warily. There was nothing there. It wasn’t unusual, since her family owned the entire floor and she was the only resident at that moment, but in the last few weeks, she’d been dismayed to discover several packages on her doorstep.
Mostly, they held big containers of elvish food — raw meats marinated in rich sauces, as well as juicier, more snackable bits like rich heart and fatty liver — but sometimes it was dark chocolate, or a sumptuously soft blanket, or even a handwritten letter. She didn’t dare take any of the gifts, nor check to see if they came with a name tag. Camille knew who they were from.
Her nose told her everything she needed to know.
At least today there were no gifts to pawn off on her staff, nor notes to keep carefully sealed in a plastic bag in her office, unread. There was no risk, as far as she could tell, of accidentally encountering Viktor Hamilton.
Hustling out of the door, she hit the biometric lock and waited for the perimeter wards to snap into place before she walked to the bank of elevators at the end of the hall. The tap-tap-tap of her stilettos was muffled by the sound-absorbing runner that spanned the length of the hardwood floor.
The apartment building was old compared to much of the city. The Solbournes built it only a few years after they took over the territory, and it had somehow survived both the calamity of 1906 and the Great War.
For what it lacked in modern conveniences, it made up for in beauty. Camille had a keen eye for design, and she loved the intricate molding and rich wood accents of the building. It had other benefits, too. Mainly, it wasn’t locked on Treasure Island like the rest of the elvish population preferred, but situated in the heart of the Financial District. It didn’t provide her complete independence, but it was near enough to make her feel slightly better.
The elevator was small and creaky, but it was meticulously maintained. She eyed it uneasily. Camille wasn’t concerned about its ability to take her down to the ground floor of the building so much as who might already be in it.
Security claimed no one besides her staff had access to her floor, but she knew that couldn’t be true. Viktor had somehow managed to get in and out without being seen at least five times. Coyote shifters were sneaky like that.