If I insulted Gryffyd Evans too deeply, found some manner of refusal he would listen to, my father would have to pay the man back. And there would be no one ready to rescue me tomorrow.

If only I'd been just a little bit pretty, just a bit smaller and less inclined to good food and lying in the sun reading. If only my hair took the slightest curl.

I lifted the glass of wine, nose wrinkling at its smell, and stared at Mr. Evans over the rim. I could not walk into that shadowy garden alone with Mr. Evans without some kind of courage. Might as well let it be liquid. I drank the glass down in full, ignoring Mr. Evans's triumphant grin and my swirling stomach.

We rose from the table, and he remained waiting for me to circle the seat, his arm offered. I wanted to refuse the gesture, but the candlelight was spinning around me, and perhaps being docile might bore him of me quicker. I tucked my hand in his elbow, mentally comparing it to the alpha's more muscular frame. Mr. Evans was just a fraction taller than me. If I survived, he might eventually stoop with age and I would have the advantage. But even I knew that was unlikely. Betas' lives were almost triple the length of an omega's, and that was without our added risk of childbirth.

Lord Cadogan had carried me through the woods with no effort I could detect, and while I hadn't felt dainty, his hold was comfortable and I'd been less self-conscious in his company than most men's. I was not very self-conscious now with Mr. Gryffyd Evans, but that was largely to do with feeling I ought to focus on him, my body tense in preparation for his strike.

Mr. Evans led the way to the back garden like it was his home, not mine. Without an heir, with me in Mr. Evans's clutches, perhaps it would end up his. No wonder he'd been willing to put money towards it.

"You must be anxious for tomorrow," Mr. Evans said.

I was more anxious for this evening, my knees growing weaker with every step, the wine in my stomach jostling like the waves at the cliff's edge.

"Don't you find it chilly out tonight, sir?" I asked. It was lovely and temperate. "Would you rather retire to the salon? I could play music for you. I've been practicing a song on the pianoforte."

At best, I was an acceptable talent at music, and my mother said my singing voice was morbid and unsettling. Would that be enough to put the man off?

His hand covered mine on his arm, fingers biting into my wrist, latching me to him. His stride was long and quick, dragging me back through the tidy rows of poppies, peonies, and roses my mother tended with such devotion.

"I've had quite enough girlish music and simpering for one courting season. You know the tradition as well as I do, Miss Posy. I intend to have what little joy this union can offer as readily and often as I please."

My skin crawled, uncomfortably warm and clammy, and my steps stumbled as he carted me to the back of the garden. There was an old wooden bench my grandfather had built, tucked under a broad willow. It wasn't entirely out of the sight of the house, but I had no doubt that wherever my parents were tonight, they weren't going to be watching the garden.

"I don't feel well," I murmured, tripping over a root.

Mother's dinner for Mr. Evans had been designed by his own cook, and it was a heavier meal than we usually had in the evenings. And that wine, too sweet and tasting far too much like the cellar Mr. Evans had mentioned.

I was thrown down to the bench, the seat hard and the landing jolting my belly and all its contents.

"Don't be missish, you're far too old for that," Mr. Evans sneered. "Even with your shortcomings, I can hardly be the first man to take the territory."

My eyes widened at such a ridiculous statement, and Mr. Evans's bulky frame wavered in front of me. A hard grip claimed my knee, hauling my foot up to the bench, as another pushed my shoulder back and to the side, putting me at an odd angle.

No. The angle he needed, I realized, some of that wine and thick dinner rising up my throat.

"Sir, I think I might⁠—"

Mr. Evans's knee landed on the bench between my awkwardly spread legs, and my skirt let out a muffled cry, tearing as he pushed it up and out of his way.

He was wrong. I was twenty-six, with all my shortcomings, and no man had claimed my territory, as he'd called it. The hand on my shoulder grasped my neck, pinching it cruelly, and my heart sank in my chest as Mr. Evans dove down and slammed his mouth to mine. His tongue was slick across my lips and chin, and I offered myself the poor consolation prize of this being absolutely the worst first kiss in history.

"Open your mouth, chit," he snapped.

But my mouth was pressed firmly closed, stomach clenching and throat swallowing compulsively as bitter saliva and sharp bile pooled on my tongue. If I opened my mouth, I would certainly⁠—

Oh. Brilliant! I thought suddenly.

I did as Mr. Evans asked of me, parting my lips as my stomach heaved once more. The wine was even worse coming back up my throat, onto my tongue, and I expelled it eagerly.

"Argh! Blech! Ughhh!"

Mr. Evans's grip on my neck was yanking me away from him now, but it was too late. I'd never been so delighted to be sick in my life, a dark stain spilling between us, over both our chins and elegant dinner clothing.

He released me, stumbling backwards, and I sat up, eagerly throwing up again, making sure it hit his pants and boots as he hurried to escape me. I wanted to crow with victory, hoot with laughter. I also wanted very much to be sick again. I felt and smelled disgusting now, but it was all worth it.

Thankfully, my voice was weak and raspy as I spoke. "Forgive me, sir. I did try to warn you. Something disagreed with me." I gagged, spat out bile to the ground, and shook my head. "I think it was the wine."

Mr. Evans shuddered and gagged softly himself. "Disgusting, absurd creature. How dare you!"

"I am so dreadfully sorry, but sir, I think there might be⁠—"

He howled and jumped aside quickly, and I bent in half to hide my foul grin.

"Never mind. Never mind tonight. No one else would ever take you," he hissed, backing away.

I nodded to agree. And perhaps Mr. Evans would spread the word and no one would ever choose me.

"But you'll pay for this tomorrow," he snarled, turning on his heel.

My grin faltered briefly until I heard him gagging again as he all but ran toward the house, calling for his carriage. This was only a delay. A reprieve from my fate.

But I thought I might've ensured one bright reward for my future, at least.

Mr. Evans would surely never offer me more of that horrible wine. If I was lucky, I'd ruined the taste for him altogether.

I huffed a laugh and then winced. Oh, I stank. I rose gingerly from the bench, and the imprint of Mr. Evans's grip on me was more disturbing than the streak of vomit running down my dress.

I would have another bath. This was my last night of freedom, peace.

And tomorrow had a single bright spot to shine against the grim dark of my future misery: I would learn what Lord Cadogan had decided to do, who he would choose after Adelaide's betrayal. It was almost as exciting as something out of a story.

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Chapter FourMAIRWEN

I'd been so relieved during the last selection ceremony, aware that I'd been given a strange blessing, able to avoid the situation for another ten years. I'd ridden in the carriage with my mother and father, walked out to the large field at the center of the island where we gathered—where the harvest fair would take place at the end of the summer—and watched the girls who were just barely older than me march up onto the stage. I'd wondered then how many of them would still be with their chosen dragons by the time the next selection came.