Checkmate

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

It's surprisingly exhausting to pose as a beloved trophy wife; throughout my fatiguing ordeal, I've forged a new respect for the tough women that lounge on luxury's lap. It seems that I cannot even blink without meeting someone new. Pain aches over my cheeks where I'd been forced to hold my lips back in a falsely cheerful smile. Many ask for me to twirl in my beautiful flaming dress, to see the shimmering fabric engulf in artistically imaginative fire.

The faces and the voices, the coy introductions and bittersweet goodbyes, the unmemorable dances with men both sweaty and beautiful, the constant din of meaningless conversation, the faked smiles and the high-pitched laughs. For each new encounter with Nathiel's acquaintances and partners in business, my eyelids droop a little further. Many ask for just one dance, and, every time, Nathiel turns to me. I accept and dance the next slow song alongside them. None are quite as awful as Aaron, none are quite as poised as the Prince. Some spin me. Others cup me in their arms at an uncomfortable proximity.

Those few times when Nathiel does spare the time to dance with me are the highlight of the night. Each and every time, he holds me tight against his chest. Not only am I clutched tenderly to his warm body like a precious jewel from his crown collection, but the way the Prince stares down at me with the widest, roundest eyes in all the Earth sends flutters of shallow pleasure dancing through my stomach.

Aaron was right; I do have him wrapped around my pinkie finger. Are all men this... simple? I would've imagined that the Prince of all people would know how to sort false from genuine. And yet here I remain, glued at the hip to the smitten Nathiel.

At the moment, he leans against a table ridden high with frosted treats, tipping back the first glass of wine I'd seen him consume. His other hand is wrapped around my waist, index finger curling with patterns over my skin. I have my fingers splayed over his heart, not vying for his attention as I see so many other amateur women doing, but instead acting as a beautiful and interactive prop. With my decorative mask on, I could be a high-class lady. I could be a Princess. They would never know.

"Oh, dear," sighs Nathiel abruptly, breaking my ecstatic reverie. His eyes disdainfully study something on the dance floor with arrogant distaste. "Duke Jhama is heading our way; I think we've socialized far too much already. Don't you think, my dear Omega?"

"How late is it?" I question, flirty tone devoid of my voice. True, it is somewhat relative to our conversation, but the important thought has been irritating me for a while.

The grungy city streets are inexplicably dangerous after midnight; that's when the Genetics are most active, and nobody wants to be caught in the dark with a Genetic. My little tenement, a small derelict hut towards the Eastern side of the quarantine, is located in one of the worst areas for the beasts. Quite a distance away, I don't want to be caught out late and have to make the journey back plunged in darkness.

Underneath his mask, Nathiel's chocolatey eyes are taken off guard. His head tilts until he's parallel to me, a baffled smile tugging at his full lips. "Why on Earth would you want to know the time?"

My hands move from resting at his chest to straddling his neck. I look deeply into his eyes, letting my undoubtedly rancid breath billow over his face. His lips part in anticipation, pupils dilating. Running my right hand up through his styled hair and massaging my left over his tensed muscles, I lean close to him.

"I don't want to stay out too late," I whisper, my sultry voice deeper than normal and furbished with a velvety quality I'd never heard before. "The streets can be a dangerous place."