"So..." I trailed off, pushing at my food with my fork. "You're from France?"

Seated across the table, my suitor nodded, lean fingers expertly prompting our best set of cutlery — non-silverware, of course — to spear a bite-size portion of steak. "Oui," he said, voice deep as a well and smoother than red velvet cake. "And you are from Australia."

I mocked his answer with silence and watched him eat, one weirdly sensual forkful at a time. The man was so handsome it was ridiculous. His back was straighter than the minority of the nation protesting gay marriage, and he acted as though dinner with my father, the most fearsome alpha in the shadow world, was an effortless affair. Like an arrogant prince from a bedtime story, I thought, taking a sip of water, glaring at him over the rim of the glass. The bridge of his nose was a slightly crooked, hinting that it had been broken at least once. It was the only imperfection I could find on his person. Broad of chest and shoulders, narrow-waisted and with a jaw as strong as his bulging arms, my suitor looked like an ancient sculpture brought to life.

He's a fine specimen, the analytical part of my mind noted. Prestigious bloodline, physically and politically powerful, attractive... a worthy mate, it decided. Not that I cared. I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself, and that was the end of the matter.

After swallowing his steak, he smiled in a decidedly sultry way. Unabashed, I arched a brow and returned to butchering my steak. The knife missed the meat, screeching as it hit the ceramic plate. We all winced. Father shot a thundercloud look in my direction from the head of the table. I promptly looked away, so that he wouldn't be able to see the satisfaction in my eyes. He deserved to feel uncomfortable. It served him right for leaving me in the dark.

Matrimony — a shock indeed.

"Why don't you tell us about yourself?" Father ventured at last, somehow coming across as both casual and authoritative at the same time. He was like an interviewer, in that sense. "I hear the Paris Pack is flourishing under the leadership of your father."

A shadow fleeted across our visitor's face, but it vanished as soon as it came. "Yes," he said. "We don't have the same renown as the Melbourne Pack, but the Paris Pack flourishes under Matheus' rule. More and more are converting to our ways, embracing our strict approach to tradition."

"Wonderful," I said aloud, careful to balance the sarcasm with an enthusiasm that could be mistaken for real. "I'm betrothed to someone of the Blanc bloodline. I must ask, though: which son are you?"

"You don't know who I am?" my suitor asked, genuinely surprised.

I noticed that his hair, the brown of rich soil, was styled to look messy in accordance with the modern hype. "What's the matter?" I asked with the falsest concern I could muster. "Not as famous as you thought you were?"

"Chance." The warning was in my father's tone, if not explicitly expressed. He turned to our guest with the closest thing to an apology he was capable of: an excuse. "I haven't had the chance to inform her of the betrothal. Other matters called for our attention."

"I understand," my suitor conceded, but there was a bite of disapproval in his tone. "Business comes before family."

His words had the full-bodied flavour of the truth, but the bitter aftertaste of a lie. He believed in what he said but seemed to wish the world was otherwise. I frowned, but the lapse in composure went unnoticed as the men locked eyes over the dinner table. Gooseflesh appeared on my forearms, and I realised the two were engaged in a battle of wills. If I concentrated, I could feel a slick heat in competition with an icy cold...

Something or someone caved, and it was over. The heat vanished, and the visitor sagged back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes. He'd lasted surprisingly long, but judging from Father's smug expression, the boy had not proven a serious challenge.

A bell chimed, a shrill reminder of the modern world. Father pulled out his phone, pensively scratching at his stubble. "Sorry kids," he said at last, rising from his chair. "I'd love to stay and chat, but duty calls. Jerome, escort my daughter to her room when you're finished."

And then there were two.

The second we were alone, I turned on my suitor. "Which son are you, and how long has my father been searching for a suitable mate for me?"

His look was one of confusion. "I would have thought that one brought up in this house would be more polite, especially towards their superiors."

I almost threw myself across the table to throttle him. "I don't see anyone superior to me in the general vicinity," I said instead, smoothing down my dress.

I smirked at the tick in his jaw. You might have impressed my father, boy, but you're yet to impress me.

He seemed to realise that. "My humble apologies," he said, switching back to his princely manner. "I meant you no insult. My name is Jerome Miles Blanc, and I am the fourth son of my father. It's a pleasure to meet you."

As an advisor to the throne, I'd heard several rumours about the sons of the Blanc bloodline. The eldest, Gabriel, was infamous for jilting his wife of several years, after she failed to produce a male heir in what he considered a reasonable amount of time (never mind the fact that science had proven it was a male's seed that determined the gender of a newborn). I only knew the vaguest details about the second and third sons; they were entirely unremarkable, and as far as I was aware, they'd married into influential bloodlines to secure political ties throughout Europe.

Jerome, however, I'd heard plenty about. The youngest son to date, Jerome was most infamous for the time his father threatened to disown him. It was public knowledge that Jerome was a shameless flirt, whose sexual preferences weren't limited by race or gender. While that didn't bother me in the slightest, it had certainly bothered the Paris Alpha, and it had gotten to the point where Matheus had publicly shamed his son, and threatened Jerome with the loss of his inheritance.

By all reports, Jerome had complied with that ultimatum.

"Yes, it's a pleasure," I said absent-mindedly. Was Jerome a victim of our parents' machinations as much as I was? Or had he come to embrace the ways of his father, all for the sake of an easy lot in life? I shook my head, suddenly sick of contemplating his character and the impact he might have on my life. "I'm no longer hungry. Would you kindly escort me to my room?"

Jerome acquiesced and we stood, abandoning our meals and the private dining space. When I fell into step beside him, it rankled me that he was taller by half a head.

"You still haven't answered one of my questions," I reminded him as we walked.

"I can't say for sure how long the Lord Nightshade has been searching for a mate for you," he said, sounding genuinely apologetic. "All I know is that the tournaments have been running for about three years."

"Tournaments?" I echoed faintly.

"You haven't..." Jerome pinched the bridge of his nose, evidently frustrated. "I can understand that he didn't disclose the identity of the winner, but that he kept the entire competition a secret... that's not an oversight. That's a deliberate decision to keep you out of the loop."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, growing impatient. "What are these tournaments?"

"The Lord Nightshade conducted a tournament in each continent over the course of three years," Jerome explained. "Thousands of werewolves entered and fought for the right to earn your hand. Millions of shadow world denizens paid to watch. The enterprise made your father a very rich man."

It shocked me to the core. If Jerome was speaking the truth — which he was — then my father had been going behind my back with this marital thing for three whole years. Three years ago I had been sixteen. It was sickening to contemplate.

"How did they decide the winner again?" I asked, a sense of betrayal unravelling in my chest, making a mess of my emotions. I got a pinch on it, but knew that it would eventually come undone.

Jerome took longer to answer this time, as if he didn't want to think about it. "Last month, those who placed first, second and third in each continent were invited to the Final Tournament, which was held in some mountains not too far from here; the Great Dividing Range, I think it's called? Anyway, the rules were different for this fight. Previously, we only fought until first blood. This time, we had to prove that we were willing to kill for you. We all had the opportunity to withdraw our claim on you, but most stayed and fought."

"To the death," I breathed, at a loss to picture such a thing.

"To the death," he confirmed.

"And you won?"

"I did."

All at once he threw me into the wall, using his bulk to trap me there. I snarled and tried to push him away, but he grabbed my head with both hands and forced me to meet his gaze. It might have looked like a romantic gesture to a passerby, but the pressure of his fingers hurt. "Get your filthy paws off —"

He smothered my last words with a kiss, mouth feverishly warm and insistent. Dominance oozed from his pores, slick and scalding like hot oil wherever our skin touched. I let out a small cry, unable to extricate myself without risking a broken neck.

"Don't fight it, baby," he crooned, taking a moment to catch his breath and kiss along my neck.

Give in? The audacity!

When his tongue next invaded my mouth, I chomped down on it, biting until my teeth clicked together. Jerome screamed and blood swamped my mouth, hot and salty. Grinning, I pulled my head back a little, pulling the wound open to the point of tearing more. I could feel the pliable flesh straining... subject to my will... as was Jerome, now. His eyes flew wide open, the whites gleaming as he followed my lead without hesitation, desperate to save his own skin (or rather, his tongue). His selfish ways pleased me, for it meant that I'd curbed his dominance and was free to be assertive once more.

When I felt certain that I had made my point, I released Jerome with a parting knee to the crotch. He collapsed with a groan, pressing a hand over his bleeding mouth. "What the hell was that for?" he swore.

"I would have thought that a guest in this house would be more polite," I quipped. "Especially towards their superiors."

Jerome glowered at me for a long, long time, but I enjoyed the uncomfortable silence. It was the fruit of my victory. "You are not like other girls," he muttered at last, climbing to his feet.

"Other girls enjoy being molested?"

He chuckled, a sound that quickly morphed into a hacking cough as he choked on his own blood. "God, no," he managed in a gasp. "No one's ever protested my advances before."

"There's a first time for everything."

"I suppose so," he grumbled. "We'll take this slow, as you wish." I was about to tell him I didn't want to take 'this' anywhere when he added: "There's your room."

Surprised, I turned around and realised he was right. My bedroom door was only a few paces away. Even as I wondered how he knew which door was was mine, I registered the presence of the guards. There were six of them, one on each side of the door, two opposite it, and one at each end of the hall. Their uniform was new and impeccably starched. I hadn't met a single one of them. No doubt it was a fresh round of recruits from the rural districts, soldiers without bias who would follow their orders intently.

"Goodbye," I said to Jerome, eager to be rid of him.

The man was stupid enough to grab my arm. I tensed, preparing to fight him a second time, but it soon became apparent that he only wished to talk.

"I need you to know," he said softly, "that I have fought long and hard for my prize, harder than most men have ever fought in their lives. I have risked everything to gain your hand. And I will not, no matter what the circumstances, be dissuaded from taking what I have earned."

What he said was irrefutably true — in his opinion. Jerome released my arm before I could think of a way to respond and left, leaving me in the care of the guards. In his absence, I concluded that I didn't like his attitude one bit. I didn't simply exist to be wooed.

As I opened the door to my bedroom, one guard winked at me. She was cute, in a short and blonde fashion, but I didn't doubt for a second that she packed a lethal punch. "You did well," she commended me. "You're a person, not a prize."

So much for guards without bias. I indulged in a rare smile; at least some small part of Father's plans had been thwarted. "Thank you," I said, pushing open the door to my bedroom.

When I closed it behind me, I realised that all six of those guards had witnessed the kiss fiasco. The smile slipped from my face. He knew. Jerome knew they were watching, and he kissed me anyway. He'd wanted to make a show out of my submission.

And then my smile returned, because there had indeed been a show. His role in it, however, had been a little different from what he'd dreamed.