Reborn as a villain:Claim the omega, Kiss the beta, Kill the dukes Chapter 153: Farmiliar

Chapter 152

Ciel

I can’t stop my eyes from looking for Jack.

Each ti I can’t see him, I get a mini panic attack. My chest tightens, my breath catches, and the room feels too big, too loud, too full of people who are not him.

And when I can see him—when I catch a glimpse of dark hair, broad shoulders, the way he moves through the crowd like he’s wading through water—I imdiately calm down.

It’s pathetic.

It’s also true.

"Oh my," the Crown Princess says, a smile tugging at her lips. "You love him, don’t you?"

Grace has escaped. Left us alone. I don’t know when it happened,she was here one mont, laughing at sothing Harriet said, and then she was gone, absorbed into the crowd by so friend or admirer.

Now it’s just and the Crown Princess. In the middle of a party. Talking.

"I..." My voice cos out small. I clear my throat. Try again. "I... yes. I do."

I feel shy. Stupidly, embarrassingly shy. My fingers find the silk scarf draped over my neck and I twist it around my fingers, giving my hands sothing to do.

She laughs slightly.

Wow. Everything about her is so elegant. Like royalty. The way she holds her champagne flute, the way she tilts her head, the way she breathes. Every tiny movent is full of perfection and etiquette.

Will I ever reach this level? I doubt it.

"It’s nice to see," she says.

I blink. "What?"

"The way you look at him. The way he looks at you." She takes a small sip of champagne. "It’s nice."

We remain silent for a while. The music swells and softens. Soone across the room laughs too loudly. I look for Jack again, he’s speaking to so old man now.

"How are the lessons going?" she asks.

"Manageable."

I lie.

She snorts.

It’s so unexpected that I actually jump a little.

"Please," she says, her voice dry. "When Russell brought to the palace? It was hell. Despite having learned etiquette my whole life. Despite my mother drilling since I could walk. Despite knowing every fork, every bow, every correct way to exist in a room full of people who are waiting for you to fail."

I keep quiet. I don’t know what to say.

"You’re right," I admit finally. "It’s not manageable."

She smiles. "I know."

"Does it get better?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

She considers for a mont.

"Yes. You just have to make thousands and thousands of repetitions until it’s second nature. Until you don’t have to think about which fork, which bow, which smile. Until your body knows before your brain does."

I look at her.The perfect posture. The serene expression. The champagne flute held at exactly the right angle.

"I can’t picture you ever struggling," I say.

She laughs, and it’s not the polite, practiced sound I’ve heard from her before. It’s real. It’s a lovely sound.

"Oh dear. The Queen would beg to disagree. She still brings up the ti I curtsied to the wrong ambassador. I was exhausted, I’d been on my feet for six hours, and he was wearing the sa color sash as the foreign dignitary I’d been introduced to earlier. I wanted the floor to swallow whole."

I laugh. I can’t help it. The image is too vivid this elegant, perfect woman, mortified, wanting to disappear.

She grins. "What I’m trying to say is, hang in there. It’s a small sacrifice we have to make for being with n like them."

"Except," I say quietly, "I didn’t know."

She stares at for a mont. Then she laughs again, softer this ti. "Well. You’re right. That is different."

"I can’t imagine how it must have been," she adds, "suddenly having your beloved be royalty."

"It was certainly sothing," I say, and the words co out lighter than I feel.

We stand in silence for a mont. The crowd shifts around us, a river of silk and conversation, and I don’t feel like I’m drowning.

The Crown Princess is nice to talk to. She’s got this soothing aura to her, the kind that makes you forget you’re supposed to be performing. The kind that led to let my guard down.

Until I sll familiar pheromones in my vicinity.

My back freezes.

Those suffocating, domineering pheromones.

That tallic, alcoholic sll.

No.

No, no, no.

"Greetings, Crown Princess," a voice says, and it feels like spiders crawling across my skin.

I turn.

A head full of purple hair, bowing.

"Duke Duvall." The princess says, and he stands up straight.

I co face to face with his gray eyes.

And suddenly I’m dragged back into the past.

*

The studio slls like turpentine and sothing darker. Sothing that clings to the back of my throat and won’t let go.

I’m on the stool again. Naked. Cold. The wooden seat bites into my thighs.

"Hold still," Laurent murmurs, his voice soft, almost tender. His brush strokes my collarbone, leaving a trail of sothing wet and cold. "The sooner you listen to my instructions, the better, my beautiful muse."

I don’t move. I learned that lesson early.

He looks down at my legs and sighs. A small sound. Disappointed.

He leans forward, grabs the back of my neck, and kisses .

His pheromones choke —smoke and alcohol and sothing acrid, sothing that burns the back of my throat. My body reacts before my mind can stop it. Heat pools in my stomach. My lips part. My hands, which I had pressed flat against my thighs, curl into fists.

He pulls back, satisfied. "Much better."

His paintbrush dips lower. His hand follows. I stare at the sky through the window, counting clouds, pretending I’m sowhere else. Anywhere else.

"Your skin is always so responsive," he murmurs, almost to himself. "That’s what makes you perfect. You don’t fight it. You just... beco what I need."

I don’t answer. I learned that lesson too.

*

And suddenly I’m back. Looking at him.

The ballroom swims around . Chandeliers. Silk. Music. Harriet’s hand on my wrist, warm and grounding.

Laurent is still standing there. Gray eyes. Purple hair. That sa soft, patient smile, like he has all the ti in the world.

Like he’s waiting for to beco what he needs again.

I want to escape. I want to run. I want to disappear into the crowd, into the corridors, into Jack’s arms, anywhere that isn’t here, isn’t now, isn’t him.

But I can’t embarrass Jack.

The thought is cold. Steady. It cuts through the panic like a blade.