Chapter 301

Vivienne

I gasp, but my mouth is covered by someone.

Panic spikes through me—cold and sharp—but immediately calms when I recognize the scent. That clean, dark, electric smell that haunts my dreams and follows me into wakefulness.

I don’t resist when the person guides me to a more secluded area, my heart racing, my skin tingling with anticipation.

She makes me face her, and I come face to face with Daphne.

She lets go of my mouth.

"Sister-in-law," she says, her voice low and velvet-smooth, pressing my back against the hedges.

Her hands settle on my hips, her fingers dipping into the waistband of my skirt. Past the fabric, past the thin barrier of my underwear, until they’re holding the bare skin of my hip bone directly.

"Surely there’s a way engaged, respectable Omegas should be dressing."

My breath catches. "It’s in theme. This is a golf course."

It’s a weak defense and we both know it. The skirt is tiny. Deliberately so.

I won’t deny—I was hoping to rile her up. She messes with me so often, those little games, those innocent touches that mean everything. I wanted to do something to her for once.

"Hmmmn." She tugs me closer, until there’s no space between us, until I can feel the heat of her body through our clothes. "A golf course theme. How creative."

"Someone could see," I whisper, but it’s not a protest anymore. It’s an observation. A thrill.

"What could they see?" Her lips brush my ear as she speaks. "I’m just having a private conversation with my sister-in-law."

Her hand slides lower on my hip, pulling me tighter against her.

"It’s not like we’re doing anything wrong."

The words are pure sin wrapped in innocence. Because we are doing something wrong. Everything about this is wrong. She’s my fiancé’s sister. I’m engaged. We’re at a public function hidden in the hedges like teenagers.

But heaven help me, I don’t want to stop.

"Daphne—"

"Shh." Her other hand comes up, fingers tracing my jawline, tilting my face toward hers. "You wore this skirt for me, didn’t you?"

I should deny it. Should lie. Should preserve some dignity.

"Yes."

The word escapes before I can stop it.

Her smile is devastating. "Good girl."

She steps closer, and I press back against the hedges, but there’s nowhere to go. No desire to escape.

"What was the goal, huh?" she asks, her voice a low, teasing murmur. "Did you want me to lose it? To touch you?"

"Yes." The word escapes before I can cage it. Honest. Desperate. Shameless.

"My, my." Her fingers trace along my hip bone, featherlight. "What would Mother think? Her precious daughter-in-law, behaving this way."

Shame and excitement battle in my chest. I should feel guilty. I am guilty. But the way she says it—like it’s a secret between us, like we’re sharing something forbidden and exquisite—

"It’s all her fault, really, when you think about it." Daphne’s lips brush my ear as she speaks. "If only she gave you to the right twin."

Her hand slides lower.

Lower.

Lower.

Lower.

And stops. Just at the edge.

I look at her. Begging.

I don’t care how pathetic I look. I don’t care about anything except the fire building between my legs, the ache that’s been growing for weeks, the need that only she can satisfy.

"Please," I whisper.

Her eyes darken. "Please what?"

"Please touch me."

"Where?"

"Daphne—"

"Say it." Her hand doesn’t move, but her presence intensifies, pressing into me without touching. "Tell me exactly what you want."

I swallow. My face burns. But I’m past shame, past propriety, past everything except her.

"I want you to touch me. There."

"Where is ’there,’ Vivienne?" That slow, devastating smile again. "Use your words."

"Between my legs." The words tumble out in a rush. "I want you to touch me between my legs. I’ve wanted it for weeks. I think about you at night. I think about your hands. Your mouth. I—"

"—did you see the floral arrangements? Absolutely divine—"

Voices. Close. Too close.

We jump away from each other like teenagers caught behind the bleachers. Daphne’s hands leave my body, and I feel the loss like a physical wound.

I press myself against the hedges, trying to disappear, trying to breathe, trying not to scream in frustration.

A group of women round the corner, chattering about flowers and charity galas. They glance at us—at Daphne, mostly—and offer polite nods before continuing past.

"CEO Han. Lovely event."

"Indeed. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon."

They’re gone as quickly as they appeared.

The space between Daphne and me crackles with unspent tension. She looks at me, and something raw flickers in her eyes before the mask slides back into place.

"Later, sister-in-law." she says with a knowing smirk and walks away.

I want to scream in frustration.

I stomp my leg against the ground like a child, not caring who sees, not caring about anything except the ache she’s left behind. The grass is slightly flattened under my heel. It’s not satisfying at all.

***

Daphne

Vivienne is pissed off for the rest of the event.

It’s adorable.

She glares at me from across the lawn. She stomps her foot when she thinks I’m not looking. She accepts champagne from a waiter and drinks it in one gulp, then glares at me again like it’s my fault.

It is my fault. That’s what makes it funny.

I can’t help it—I enjoy riling her up. The way her cheeks flush. The way her eyes flash. The way she tries so hard to be composed and proper while I can see exactly what’s burning beneath the surface.

The event finally ends. We go home in separate cars, but when we arrive at the mansion, when we pass each other in the foyer, she slips something into my hand.

Something small. Soft.

Lace.

She walks past me without a word, her chin held high, her cheeks pink.

I wait until she’s gone, until the hallway is empty, before I peek.

It’s underwear. Delicate, pale blue, tiny lace underwear.

I shove it back into my pocket so fast I nearly tear it.

Then I lean against the wall and laugh.