Betrayed and Claimed by the Lycan King Chapter 33

Isolde's POV

 

I stared at my reflection in the illuminated mirror, barely recognizing the woman looking back. The makeup artist had transformed my face with heavy smoky eyes, contoured cheekbones, and blood-red lips that made me look like an expensive escort. The sequined red mini-dress they'd forced me into barely covered what was necessary, leaving my legs and chest exposed in a way that made my skin crawl.

 

"This kind of outfit makes me want to tear off my own skin and die a quick, merciful death," I muttered under my breath, shifting uncomfortably in the five-inch heels that already had my feet screaming in protest..

 

"Ladies, time to go," announced one of the assistants. "Group A will be escorted to the Platinum Lounge on the fortieth floor. Group B goes to the Diamond Suite on the forty-second."

 

I found myself separated from Thalia as we were divided into groups. She shot me a terrified look as she was led toward a different elevator, and I wanted to tell her everything would be okay. But I couldn't bring myself to lie.

 

*This is not going to be okay.*

 

The Platinum Lounge was exactly what I'd expected—dimly lit, expensively furnished, and reeking of cigar smoke and expensive cologne. Soft jazz played in the background while well-dressed men in their forties and fifties lounged in leather chairs, drinks in hand, eyes already assessing the preys that had just walked through the door.

 

"Fresh faces tonight," one of them commented with the kind of smile that made my skin crawl. "I like what I see."

 

I watched the other Alliance girls disperse among the gathered executives, offering drinks and shoulder massages with practiced smiles. I remained rooted near the entrance, contemplating whether making a run for it would be worth whatever punishment Greta would devise.

 

"Isolde!" hissed a blonde Alliance girl as she passed with a tray of drinks. "What are you doing just standing here? Do you want Greta to punish you again?"

 

I reluctantly pushed away from the wall, scanning the room for the safest possible executive to approach. As I moved deeper into the lounge, my eyes caught movement in one of the semi-private alcoves to my left.

 

My breath stopped. A finance executive, his tailored suit jacket crumpled on the floor, sprawled in a plush chair with an Alliance girl straddling his lap. Her dress was yanked up to her waist, revealing her bare thighs and the sheer, black lace of her thong, leaving nothing to the imagination. 

 

His hands clamped onto her hips, fingers digging into her flesh as he guided her in a grinding, primal rhythm against his groin. Her loud, theatrical moans—raw and pornographic—cut through the jazz, her lips parted in a glossy, red O, though her glassy eyes betrayed the emptiness of her performance. 

 

Their bodies collided in a brazen, carnal display—her breasts, barely contained by the shredded, low-cut dress, spilled out, nipples hard and visible through the torn fabric. His hands roamed up her spine, ripping the dress further to bare her back, then yanked her forward until her chest pressed against his face. 

 

His mouth devoured her exposed skin, sucking and biting at her breasts, leaving glistening trails of saliva as she threw her head back, her cries louder, faker, her body writhing in exaggerated ecstasy.

 

Bile rose in my throat, my stomach contracting painfully. Despite being twenty-three, I'd never had sex—my relationship with Kieran had never progressed that far—and yet here I was, expected to offer myself like a whore.

 

*Is this what Kieran wanted?* I wondered bitterly. *Is this why he betrayed me for Sybilla? Because she was willing to be this kind of girl?*

 

Panic washed over me in waves, my hands beginning to tremble slightly as I realized the full implications of what was expected tonight.

 

*I'm going to be sick.*

 

*I have to get out of here. Now.*

 

I turned toward the exit, my heart pounding so hard I could barely think straight. I'd rather face whatever punishment Greta could devise than spend another minute in this room pretending that being groped by strangers was a privilege.

 

But before I could reach the door, it opened itself.

 

Beta Nathaniel stepped into the lounge, his sharp eyes immediately scanning the room before settling on me. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his posture that suggested he was here with a purpose.

 

"Miss Blackwood," he said calmly, walking directly toward me. "You're needed elsewhere."

 

*Needed elsewhere?*

 

"You're coming with me. Now." Nathaniel said flatly.

 

Without waiting for a response, he placed a firm but gentle hand on my elbow and guided me toward the exit. I was too shocked to resist, too grateful for the escape to question what was happening.

 

*Is this real? Is he actually rescuing me?*

 

The elevator ride down was silent, Nathaniel's expression remaining carefully neutral while I tried to process what had just occurred. He wasn't touching me inappropriately, wasn't making demands or explanations—he was simply removing me from a situation that had been spiraling toward disaster.

 

*But why?*

 

When we reached the lobby, I finally found my voice. "I don't understand. Why did you—?"

 

"You don't need to understand," Nathaniel replied calmly, pressing the button for the residential floors. "You just need to go back to your room and stay there for the rest of the evening."

 

*That's it? No explanations?*

 

"But the executive service assignment—Greta will be furious if I don't complete it."

 

"Greta's concerns are not your problem tonight," he said with finality.

 

*What the hell does that mean?*

 

The elevator doors opened at my floor, and Nathaniel gestured for me to exit. But before I could step out, I turned back to face him.

 

"Why are you helping me?" I asked desperately. "I need to know."

 

"Some questions are better left unasked, Miss Blackwood, just leave." he said quietly.

 

"No! I'm not leaving now!"

 

"Why is that?"