Page 81 of In Too Deep
Glancing around, I snag an empty chair, describing my vision to the stylists. It takes no time at all to turn me into a dark, ethereal fairy, with glittering lips and a deep smokey eye, my wavy tresses piled just so on top of my head. And just in time, too, as I feel the rumble of the bass vibrating the floor as the music starts.
I follow the flow of the crowd toward the entrance, pausing only to check in with security and obtain my VIP team pass and table assignment. There’s a charity dinner before the party opens to the public, the ballroom separated from the dining space by a divider. I wander around between the tables, half looking for my seat, and half looking for any of my alphas. It proves to be more difficult than anticipated, as more than half of the attendees are wearing masks. But then, the crowd parts slightly, and I find Eli’s head of bright blond hair, his back to me as he talks with two taller, dark-haired alphas I can only assume are Spencer and Oli.
I start toward them, my heart skipping a beat as I take in their tuxedo-clad forms. I’ve seen them in three-pieces a coupledozen times in the last few months, but there’s something about the deep purple, forest green, and black-with-gold-pinstriped ensembles that makes my belly turn molten. They’re not wearing masks, as they are the faces the public wants to see here, but I can almost picture them. Maybe one day, I’ll have to have them dress up in these again, and get some matching Venetian masks to complete the fantasy…
Oliver spots me first, his jaw visibly dropping as his eyes go wide. Spencer turns and freezes as well, but Eli only turns when I’m less than three strides away. His face brightens in a smile wide enough to show off his missing incisor, the expression melting my heart as well as my core.
“You look incredible,” he gushes, holding out a hand for me to take so he can spin me.
The voluminous skirt flares out, and I giggle, cheeks heating. “Y’all clean up pretty well, yourselves,” I tell them through my laughter.
Spencer is still thunderstruck, but Oli takes my hand from Eli and brings my knuckles to his mouth in a chivalrous kiss. “God, if we were alone... the things I would do you,ma reine,” he whispers against my skin, just loud enough so no one passing by can overhear us.
I flush hotter, tucking my chin slightly. “What do you always tell me? Learn some patience?” I tease, batting my eyelashes.
Oli’s wolfish grin makes my stomach flutter, and I can feel slick escaping around the edges of my barely-there panties. I’m glad this whole place has the most state-of-the-art air filtration system on the market, or anyone would be able to tell what these alphas do to me.
“Where are you sitting for dinner?” Eli asks, deftly changing the subject.
He leans over when I show him my dinner ticket, but I raise my eyes to find Spencer still staring at me. I give him aquestioning look, which seems to shake him out of his stupor, and he gives me a sheepish smile, the tips of his ears turning bright red. He tries his best to be subtle, but it’s hard to miss when he adjusts his cock in his pants. A heady rush of feminine power floods my system, my instincts calling for me to preen for my alpha. But I control myself, turning back to Eli.
“We’re sitting together. That’s awesome!” he exclaims, showing me his ticket.
I do my best to look genuinely shocked, not letting on that I was the one who approved the final seating arrangements and made sure no one except people I trusted were sitting anywhere near my future pack mates. Even if I had to put Logan at a different table, he’s still surrounded by happily mated and retired alpha donors and their beta wives. Maybe it’s a little extra, but as my mother would say: if you’re not doing the most, then what are you even doing?
We make our way to our table, the boys wandering off in search of drinks while I hold the fort, sitting back in my seat and taking everything in. I’ve been working for months behind the scenes to get this event ready, basically starting on the day after last year’s ball. It’s a labor of love from multiple different departments across three different organizations, but the results are always worth it. The table centerpieces are incredible, with fresh flowers and artisan-crafted trinkets put together just so and raised above the table on glass stands so lines of conversation aren’t blocked. The table settings are gleaming gold on black, prepared for the four-course meal that will get underway shortly.
An announcement is made for everyone to take their seats, and the boys make their way back to me so fast that I wonder how far they actually got. Oliver sets a glass of white wine down in front of me, so at least one of them made it to the bar. I spread my napkin over my lap as the four other guests joinus, handpicked by me as well. The co-owners of Bart’s Office Incorporated, Courtney and Kasie, along with their partners. Talk is pleasant as we eat, everyone enjoying themselves, time flying until we’re at the dessert course, and the few speakers step up to the slightly raised podium to say their pieces.
Thankfully, things are short and sweet, mostly because we can hear the bump of the music on the other side of the thin divider, as well as voices from the early birds. I slip away from the boys to join the crowd making their way into the ballroom, waiting for the players to get their traditional entrance. The crowning of the Krewe of Olympus court will follow, and then it’s time to dance.
I head to the back of the room, away from the crowd gathering along the velvet ropes lining the purple, green, and gold carpet. I’ve seen this before, and I already know that the King of Olympus is going to the Saints quarterback, his omega receiving the Queen’s crown. I start scrolling through my phone, sorting through the photos that everyone sent me throughout the day. I’ll have my pick of the litter when it comes to putting together the slideshow for the press and the team website.
“This spot taken, doll?”
Looking up at the sound of the strange voice, I take an instinctual step back from the tall, lanky alpha leaning over me. He’s dressed rather simply for the occasion, wearing a black button-down and tight trousers, his peacock-blue tie a match to the hair he’s slicked back into a topknot. Movement behind him catches my attention, and my eyes go wide as I find a massive, hulking man stepping up to my other side, dressed in all black, which only makes his deeply tanned skin and dark hair and eyes that much more intense.
On his arm is a stunning woman, her figure reminiscent of runway models, with cheekbones sharp enough to cut anyone who would be stupid enough to slap her under her skull-shaped mask. Her dark hair is arranged elegantly, half up withcorkscrew tendrils falling around her bare shoulders. A match to her escort, her outfit is black, but instead of a traditional dress, she has pants with an attached bustle at the back. The garments are covered in thousands of crystals, black with white gems in the shape of bones to complete her skeleton costume.
But what has my knees knocking is the all-too-familiar alpha making his way around his friends. He’s not wearing a costume or a mask, though I’m not surprised. His expensive suit is tailored to perfection, his usual white dress shirt swapped out for black with a deep gunmetal tie and matching pocket square.
Gideon St. Clair’s hazel eyes are hard as stones as he smirks at me, stopping only when he blocks me in entirely. “Good evening, Miss Strauss.”
“You didn’t say thiswas the girl you’ve been calling, Gee,” the blue-haired man drawls, and I can feel his leer running up and down my body even though I don’t dare to take my eyes off Gideon.
“She’s an omega,” the woman comments, her voice carrying the same accent as the first speaker. Mid-Atlantic?
Gideon growls, and his eyes dart behind me to glare at his companions before returning his focus to me. I finally gather my wits and straighten my spine, clearing my throat subtly. It’s hard to think when I’m surrounded by the smell of freshly struck matches and burning orange trees, but I’ve never let an alpha intimidate me before, and I’m not about to start now.
“I didn’t realize you would be attending the ball, or bringing friends. We would have made sure—”
“We both know that I don’t like to make a spectacle of my visits, Miss Strauss,” Gideon interjects smoothly, a smirk pulling up one corner of his lips.
“Dinner was great, though you may have a few angry emails coming your way,” the largest man says, chuckling ironically.
The woman giggles, and I turn to give them a curious look. But I jump as something sharp taps on my bare shoulder, whipping around to find the blue-haired man holding out four of the highly decorated place cards. I take them, and my eyes go wide as I realize that the names have been crossed out—four of the decade-long season ticket holders and generous donors to half a dozen player charities—and replaced with handwritten names.
Gideon St. Clair.